


The War of Exaltation

by Jezmatron



Series: The Reckoning of Humanity [1]
Category: The War of the Worlds - H. G. Wells, XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alien Invasion, Britain gets humbled, Eventual Romance, F/M, Historical Attitudes, Imperial Britain, So does everyone really, Some historical racism, They get over it pretty damn fast, Victorian Sensibilities, aliens in london, some steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27100729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezmatron/pseuds/Jezmatron
Summary: Who could have dreamed that, across the vast gulf of space, minds infinitely superior to ours, regarded this earth with envious eyes.But some have prepared. They have watched the skies. And they know something is coming.And now they just need Major William Anderson to help them with a spot of bother around Horsell Common...- a port of my fics from Spacebattles, this is large, grand story set in Victorian England during the Martian invasion. The story of how a small society rallies the straggling British Army and the denizens of London to fight back against monstrous threats. Trials, challenges, intrigue and lots and lots of snark from our favourite Doctor Vahlen.
Series: The Reckoning of Humanity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978060
Kudos: 2





	1. The Eve of The War

**Author's Note:**

> RIGHT. So, this fic has been on Space Battles and FF.net for a while. It's been on unplanned Hiatus as I was distracted by She Ra and felt a bit of a rut.
> 
> This fic can be found on Spacebattles: https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/the-war-of-exaltation-war-of-the-worlds-xcom.756850/
> 
> And on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13300977/1/The-War-of-Exaltation-War-of-the-Worlds-XCOM
> 
> It's a crossover with a bit of romance, but is MAINLY a war story. So, TW for:
> 
> \- Blood  
> \- Combat stress  
> \- Violence  
> \- Victorian sensibilities  
> \- Mild racism (From the characters)  
> \- Psychotic Martians
> 
> Also, you may notice some familiar names NOT affiliated with XCom / WOTW.
> 
> This is INTENTIONAL.
> 
> And a bit of a hint as to where this will go after the war ;) 
> 
> I have about 50 Chapters so will aim to upload one every couple of days so y'all have SOMETHING from me between SHE RA and other things.

-Emergency restart

-Timestamp - ERROR - cascade failure. DUMPSTACK||||

Reinitialising/override timestamp check

_-Carry_   
_-Carry_   
_-Carry_

Restart successful. Running diagnostic on **/self/**

\- Wetware mainframe: OPERATIONAL

\- Observation Matrices: OPERATIONAL

Network connectivity: 94.37% functional

\- Error: POLAR station 3

\- Error: EQUATORIAL stations 2 and 4

Timestamp =?Check|error?

_Correlating._

Checking stellar spread

Communicating with **EMPIRE1**

Communicating with VI template clusters

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

Error - communication buoy = **NULL**

Checking NodeRelay

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

Error - NodeRelay = **NULL**

Stellar spread checksum complete:

Cycle complete

Reactivation delay - critical time delay. Elapsed time = **UNKNOWN** \- insufficient comparative data

Comparative starmap files = ERROR  
Storage stacks = CORRUPTED  
Seismic disturbance in levels 1 through 72  
Structural integrity compromised - all stations  
Cryo-bays DAMAGE REPORTED

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

Diagnostic complete - CENTRAL fully functional  
Error in bays 7 through 12.  
 **NULL** return in bays 1 through 4  
Bays 5 through 6, 13 through 20 reporting nominal lifesigns.

**WARNING** power levels at critical levels.

**WARNING** containment failures likely

**WARNING** emergency reanimation begun

Beacon node activated…. _**/ CANCEL - PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE enacted /**_

_\- Reanimation begun_. Power rerouting to living quarters, command centre, medical facilities. Bio-forms aligned to printers 1 through 3, preparing. Expected time to full reanimation of crew complement: **3** rotations.

\- Checking surface: parameters - emergence; cultivation; growth

ERROR

Atmosphere: Comparing with **ESTABLISHMENT** record. Correlation with functional surface observatory records:

Surface pressure: _6.36 mb at mean radius (Data shows: variable from 4.0 to 8.7 mb)_

Surface density: _~0.020 kg/m3_

Scale height: _11.1 km_

Total mass of atmosphere: _~2.5 x 1016 kg_

Average temperature: _~210 K_

Diurnal temperature range: _184 K to 242 K_

Wind speeds: _2-7 m/s up to 5-10 m/s,_

**WARNING:** Inclement weather patterns registered - designate **DUST** : 17-30 m/s

Mean molecular weight: _43.34_ \- catastrophic depletion registered

Atmospheric composition (volume):

Major: _Carbon Dioxide (CO2) - 95.32%; Nitrogen (N2) - 2.7%; Argon (Ar) - 1.6%; Oxygen (O2) - 0.13%; Carbon Monoxide (CO) - 0.08%_

Minor (ppm): _Water (H2O) - 210; Nitrogen Oxide (NO) - 100; Neon (Ne) - 2.5; Hydrogen-Deuterium-Oxygen (HDO) - 0.85; Krypton (Kr) - 0.3; Xenon (Xe) - 0.08_

**CONCLUSION:** Catastrophic environmental degradation. Utilising meteorological data to adjust TIMESTAMP check.

RUN: inventory check: nutrient supplies

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

**CONCLUSION:** Sufficient for 73 rotations at full complement without suitable surface facilities.

Adjust for attrition

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

**CONCLUSION** : 234 rotations at current estimated reanimation population of **CREATORS**

RUN Check - Observation Target.

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

Solar observer platforms ACTIVE, returning ping.

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

Observation Target Designated **SOL 3**. Downloading observation data

**CONCLUSION** : **SOL 3** contains sufficient resource for extended survival of **CREATORS**

Observation: Large presence of ambulatory organic mammals. No synthetic presence detected. Assessing

_Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

**CONCLUSION:** Current population of **CREATORS** at risk.

**CONCLUSION:** Enactment of _**PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE**_ unlikely with projected demise of **CREATORS**

**CONCLUSION:** Insufficient resources at current locale for survival of **CREATORS**

**CONCLUSION:** Insufficient resources at current locale for enactment of _**PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE**_

**CONCLUSION:** Sufficient resources within local cluster

**CONCLUSION:** To ensure survival of **CREATORS** new locale must be acquired with [ _sub requirement: nutrient stability_ ] [ _sub-requirement: atmospheric compatibility_ ] [ _sub requirement: functional servitor candidates_ ]

_**END CONCLUSION**_ : **SOL 3** designated as _**LOCATION_NEW**_ for _**PROTOCOL CRUCIBLE.**_

_**END CONCLUSION:**_ War-forms activated in storage bays SOUTH and WEST

_**END CONCLUSION:**_ Begin initial landing zones and preparation sites

_**END CONCLUSION:**_ Activating **SOL 3** contingent assets

_**END CONCLUSION**_ : Establish sufficient data to CORRECT Timestamp error

OBSERVATION: The problem is of course the _**HUMANS.**_

* * *

He awoke with bedsheets tightly wrapped around his legs and the mattress drenched in sweat. His eyes fluttered open, rolling around, as the sound of screaming horses and men fled from his mind, wakefulness stamping away the nightmares. His heart hammered in his chest, the images playing in his head even as he sucked in air. Slowly he moved and propped himself up on his elbows. A knock at the door shook him awake fully and, with a grunt, he managed to disentangle himself from the sheets and stand. He looked around the room, a rather well furnished hotel suite, and plucked the dressing gown from where it was slung over the back of a chair. He tied the tassel as he walked towards the door and opened it with a bleary eyed smile. Beyond stood a young, uniformed porter who smiled toothily. He spoke with a barely masked Cockney drawl, the vowels artificially clipped, as one who'd had it drilled into them to "speak proper to the guests."

"Mornin' Major. As requested, your wake up call. Breakfast is being served in twenty minutes. No messages overnight, sir."

He eyed the youth, and nodded, "Thank you, very good. I shall be down forthwith."

The boy looked as if he was expecting something and the Major frowned, "Now, lad, I'll be checking out today. You make sure my bags are downstairs promptly. Also, if there's a copy of The Times to hand, that would be appreciated."

"''Course guv...sir. Prompt like."

The Major nodded and managed a faint smile as the lad tugged at his forelock, calling to mind an earlier time. He watched the boy head down the corridor, towards the newly-installed electrical elevator. Last time he'd been here the damn thing had been a pulley, practically. Called to mind the tales of his men about their time down the mines. All change, these days, though.

With a sigh he ducked back into his room and closed the door, then made his way to the dresser and fished out his wash-kit. Once retrieved he headed out to the ablutions opposite his room and took up station in front of one of the basins. The wash-room was inlaid with light wood and porcelain bowls, the very image of cleanliness. It reminded him of a very well cared for hospital, albeit only briefly. Much less blood here, for one.

The face staring back at him from the angled mirror was paler now - the tan of a lifetime spent in countries that practically baked was hard to shake even after a few years back home. His eyes, hazel and sad, were ringed with faint dark marks. The damnable insomnia and night terrors took their toll. He ran a hand across chin and jowl, feeling the scrape of faint stubble. That wouldn't do. He flourished a straight razor from his kit and placed it on the counter-top, then fished out the brush and lather. A twist of the tap sent warm water spilling into the white bowl and he liberally applied a thick layer to his face. Satisfied, he then whipped the razor across the leather strop hung next to the basin then carefully laid it against his throat. A gentle but firm stroke and a layer of foam was struck from his face, a clean, straight gap in the coverage. He smiled faintly, imagining his father's indignation at shaving himself. An image of the man swum in the mirror for the barest moment: his own features with some blemishes, colder eyes, sharper nose. He could hear the admonishment.

" _What are butlers for, boy? Are you some common clerk who can ill adapt the authority of his station?"_

He'd always been a bit at odds with that. And he never quite got comfortable at the thought of someone else holding a blade to his neck. Not these days, at least. No, this was a clear routine. He hadn't let his batman near the task, levying the more mundane duties of shoe-polishing and laundry care to the poor nominated scrote. He'd liked Private Phipps. Shame what had happened. But the man had given as good as he got, that much could be said.

Didn't deserve what he'd got though. No one did.

He shuddered and swore as the blade nicked his chin. Grimacing, he dabbed at the spot and sighed, then carefully continued, until his face was smooth. A minor improvement he pondered, feeling the skin of his face, before wiping away the remaining lather. His sideburns still reach down his jaw, but gone was the stubble from his face, keeping with the standard of the day. A few dabs of his handkerchief and the bleeding on his jaw ceased, leaving a faint red spot. However, the basin now had a pinkish film, like the world's most insipid wine had left its legs along the rim. He chuckled.

_Now it looks like a hospital._

He rinsed the basin with tap and hand, then headed back to his room. He'd heard tell that some new enterprise in the Americas had bathroom and sink within the room itself. He couldn't imagine that - the impropriety should one have company would be unseemly.

_How quick our mores shift, cosseted in the Smoke._ He chided himself - he'd joked with men as they squatted by roadsides and pissed in ditches. Ablutions and impropriety were hardly taboo to him these days. But adapting back to society was an interesting challenge. One that the Royal Military College didn't quite touch upon in its drills and seminars. _A breakdown in the good order of the men_ was how one particularly curmudgeonly Sergeant had put it. Twenty lashes to each of the afflicted had been the suggested remedy to restore a _"palpable sense of place, order and discipline_." And then when they got home, a quarter of them had thrown themselves off the tallest bridge they could find.

The Navy just used rum as their first go-to. That seemed a better deal, to his mind. But then he knew you couldn't exactly leave anything fermented near a Company of enlisted men. Not if you wanted to find it later.

He dressed quickly, selecting a pair of grey trousers and suspenders, coupled with a crisp white shirt and grey bow-tie; a tweed waistcoat and matching grey blazer finished the look. He plucked a set of brown gloves from his carry-case and slid on his morning shoes. Suitably attired, he retrieved his walking cane and top hat, before ensuring his cases were locked and stacked. Humming to himself, he made his way to the elevator. A porter waited and nodded to him, "Lobby, sir?"

"If you would be so kind."

"Of course, sir."

The porter pulled the shutter closed and pulled the crank next the the selection of floor button. The elevator shudder and began its slow descent, before arriving with a tinny "ding" at the lobby. The Porter tapped the brim of his cap and the Major returned the gesture, before stepping into the lobby. His shoes clacked on the marble tiles as he crossed the floor to the restaurant. A grey-haired maître d smiled at his approach and led him to a waiting table, then took his cane and hat. A thin porcelain cup of tea and a folded copy of the times was waiting. The maître d smiled,

"As requested, sir."

The major nodded and sat, opening the paper and taking some cursory glances across the current things to occupy the imagination of Britain's press corps. A new monument in the American Capital; ongoing investigations into the Irish rebels attack on the Tower; a transcript of a speech by Gladstone; there was a fluff piece about a reignited interest in astronomy. He gave that a brief look, it having been a past-time hobby of an old friend of his from Woking. The name Giovanni Schiaparelli and his "Canals" was being touted - some humdrum poppycock about civilisations on The Red Planet, dredged up nearly twenty years after the man had made his claims. Clearly a slow news week.

"A mistranslation, of course."

The voice was high, with a faint accent, possible Prussian. He pushed a corner of his paper down and peered over it at the speaker.

She was a slim woman, dressed in a high-collared dress that was, by any measure, austere. It was a faint green-grey in colour and had hardly any bustle. It was not of any particular fashion trend he was aware of (although he would be the first to admit the fairer sex's proclivities around sartorial extravagance eluded him). Her dark blonde hair was done in a tight bun to the rear, with only a small fascinator atop her head in place of the current fashion for broad brimmed things and her face had only the faintest traces of blush and showed off her pale visage. Her nose was small and pointed and her blue eyes were piercing. They were also fixed on him, rather intently, and she had a faint smirk on her face.

"Excuse me?" he managed.

"You are, of course, excused. Herr Anderson? Or rather Major William Anderson?"

He folded his paper and smoothed it out on the table top, then rested his chin on the knuckles of his right hand.

"And if I'm not, will you try this particular ambush technique on every man with a paper until you find him? I have to say it would offer more in the way of amusement on a dour Tuesday."

He chuckled as her smirk slipped slightly. Then he leaned back and gestured to the chair opposite him. She glanced at it, then back at him with an arched eyebrow. With a faint harrumph he stood and moved around the table, pulling the chair out, then sliding it back carefully as she folded herself into it.

"Good to see chivalry is not quite dead in this land."

He returned to his chair and frowned at her again, "You're not a native. Prussian? Afraid our conversation will be rather short if you're an agent of Bismarck. A few too many… complications and all that."

She pouted, then shook her head, "Nein. I am Swiss, if you must know."

Anderson chuckled, "Well I'm pretty sure I have no accounts or monies owed to the families there. So, why have I been accosted, before breakfast, I might add, by a rather austere German woman?"

"Swiss. And I have come due to a recommendation of a mutual friend. It concerns matters of Martian origin."

Several diners turned at Anderson's derisive snort of laughter, "Martian? My dear lady, it is too early in the morning for that sort of japery," he paused and draped an arm over the back of the chair - a hideous display of casualness considering the setting, "Or did you spot the story I was reading and decided to have some amusement at my expense?"

Her look was one of impatient frustration, "He did not warn me of your bombast, Herr Anderson. I find myself unperturbed however. No, it is no coincidence that the little story in the broadsheets is doing, as you say, "the rounds". Of course it's right for the wrong reasons."

"Oh, and what reasons might those be?"

"Linguistic coincidence - _canale_ is Italian for "channel" - your English journalists did what they are wont to do and took two plus two and made fifteen. However, I and my colleagues believe they are not far from the truth of the matter."

Anderson snorted gain, quietly this time, "An epistemological conundrum? It is too ruddy early. And i've only had a single sip of bally tea." he took that opportunity to take another sip and eyed the woman, who still held herself tall and rigid, even while sat, "I am not one to complain about fair company, but this is most peculiar. Are you a mad woman who slipped past the porters with ill-intent?"

"Would a mad-woman admit to this state of affairs, Herr Anderson?"

"She might do, if she were mad. Problem with the mind, as I understand it, is that when one suffers ill humours affecting it, it results in unpredictable activity."

"You are a medical man?"

"Hardly. But spend enough time in the company of veterans and field hospitals, one recognises like for like," he nodded to himself, "You are a woman of a certain bearing. If you are destined for old Bedlam, then it's probably through conviction if nothing else."

She arched a perfect eyebrow at him, "Indeed, sir?"

"You learn to recognise these things. Well, I did. Difference between a dead young fool and an older live one."

"Quite the idiom."

"So, Martians?"

"Perhaps. Or the possibility of things beyond our current scope of expectation."

"And why seek me out? If this is so important, why not petition the Secretary for War and The Colonies? Or do you feel I am a man wanting for company and hobbies and intend to entrap me thusly, with tales of wonder?" he leaned forwards slightly, "I am afraid you are too late for my imagination to be captured by such frivolity. Harsh reality has brooked no argument and stripped my capacity for wonder, I fear. No such tender ministrations are likely to engender a favourable response."

The woman frowned and nodded, "Indeed. I was given to understand you have experienced depravities that none should bear witness to. It was one reason you come… recommended."

It was William's turn to arch an eyebrow, "Recommended? Oh yes? For what?"

"This is hardly the venue for such a discussion. You said you have not breakfasted yet. Please, continue, I will wait. Unless you have a pressing appointment?"

He eyed her carefully then proffered a shrug, "Somehow I feel you know I do not. Care to join me, in that case?"

She pursed her lips and tilted her head, then smiled. It was a small thing but her face lit up, "And you will be of course covering?"

"Hah, yes, Swiss. I see it now. As a gentleman, of course. But quid pro quo: you have me at a disadvantage, Miss?"

"Doctor."

"Doctor?"

She tilted her head and nodded. "Yes. Vahlen. Doctor Moira Vahlen." 


	2. A requested engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Anderson is reintroduced to old memoires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to upload the first five chapters so people have enough to get their teeth into...
> 
> This is a different sort of fic from my others I know, so I hope everyone enjoys. Leave a comment with your thoughts!

Breakfast was a quiet affair - the pair exchange polite pleasantries, but Vahlen clearly didn't wish to elaborate in the current setting. What she was clearly more interested in was the "full English" that she had practically demolished - all without marring her impeccable dress or blouse. Anderson found himself impressed - most women of his acquaintance would have dabbed at some boiled egg made an airy comment about being far too full and then spent the next few hours being mildly irritable due to hunger.

Clearly this woman had no time for such needless frippery. Though she did have some choice words to say about the sausage, which did bring a wrinkle of her nose and frown.

"I do not wish to ask whether this is meat or just _offal_."

Anderson gave a half smile, "Not Black Pudding, so you are likely safe from the predations of pig bladder, madam."

"A proper _bratwurst_ with mustard and a decent slice of bread. You English get that part half right. But then you decide that it also needs eggs and _potatoes_."

"Your appetite seems at odds with your vehemence, Ms Vahlen."

She gave him a sharp look, " _Doctor_ , if we are to be formal, Major."

He shrugged, then took a bite of toast - he had settled on light fare this morning, "We shall see what it is you wish to elaborate upon before I accept that moniker - I have met plenty of self proclaimed kings and generals across this God-given world. Nary a medal or true platitude to their name, simple vaunted ego. So, I will go with _evidence_ beyond opinion, Madam."

Vahlen stared at him for a moment longer than he was comfortable, then she proffered a smile that bordered on the predatory.

"Then evidence you shall have, Herr Anderson."

"Not Major?"

"You are not in uniform, where is your _evidence_?"

"Touche."

The meal concluded, the pair made their way to the lobby. At the counter the bellhop from earlier was loiter. He spotted the Major and touched his forelock again, making a subtle gesture to the trolley containing his bags. Anderson gave Moira a quick glance.

"Will our discussion require a further stay in the hotel?"

She shook her head and adjusted the clasp-bag in her hands, " _Nein_ , a brief sojourn through the town. You will be able to carry on any afternoon appointments, should you be required to do so."

"Very well."

Anderson looked to the porter behind the desk, then read through the proffered ledger of expenses, before producing a cheque-book from his inside pocket,

"Thank you, Samuel. A wonderful stay. Compliments to the chef for last night's Beef Wellington."

"You're too kind sir. Settling the entirety of the account, sir?"

"Yes please - I do believe it may be a few months before I am back in town."

"That is a shame, sir." The man's voice was a rolling monotone, but he did smile sadly, "I do know that our regulars do appreciate your anecdotes in the smoking room."

"Well, I will endeavour to return at my earliest convenience." Signed and settled, he turned and walked back to Moira, then beckoned the bellhop over. The young man ambled across and grinned again as Anderson slipped a shilling into his hand, "See if you can't make good use of that, eh lad?"

Moira quirked an eyebrow at him, "Such continental generosity, Mr Anderson?"

He smiled at her and offered his arm, cane clutched in his left hand, "I have seen boys like him in places they should not be, seeing things they should not have to. One earning an honest living and making good? That deserves reward. And I just hope the recruiters do not get their hooks in him with stories of vainglorious conquest and preserving the honour of _Empire_. Shall we?"

Together they left the hotel and entered into the busy hustle and bustle of London. Northumberland Avenue. Opposition the Metropole hotel was the Royal Avenue Theatre, currently advertising Offenbach's "Madame Favart", as well as some less-than-salubrious Burlesque acts for evening patrons.

Anderson let himself be guided by his new companion - she led them up Northumberland Avenue towards Trafalgar square. Carriages rattled past - no trams into the central part, save by the river, down towards Westminster. It was a Tuesday so most of the people out and about were the well-to do, errand runners or people bound for Charing Cross station, which was always a throng of activity.

The promenaded in silence, Anderson growing curiouser by the moment. His cane clacked against the pavement, and he allowed himself to take in the surroundings - the air was mild, as befitted a late April morning; there was a faint pall in the air, the smog of industry seeping even here from the south bank shipyards; the furnaces, tanneries, coaleries and dock-houses of the Docklands spread its cloying miasma across the city.

He glanced as Moira coughed into a small handkerchief, dabbing at her nose, which she wrinkled in distaste.

"London air not to your liking?"

"Hardly air, now. Whilst I am a firm advocate of the progress of mankind, I would prefer _mit weniger dreck,_ "

"Hmm, I got the 'dreck' part. I assume you would rather crisp, clearer environs?"

"More ventilated. It is a shame the wind, it is blowing from the east today."

"Indeed," he chortled, "Oh dear, we're discussing the weather. So, please elaborate, where are we going? To take in the National Gallery?"

"Ja."

He glanced at her and nodded slowly. "So, Martians are interested in our artwork are they?"

She shot him a look that would have withered the hardiest of thistles, "Who can fathom the desire of an alien mind. _Nein_ it is merely a first venue to meet another actor in this little stage play."

"You don't sound entirely happy about that."

"As you say, I am bought into this endeavour. But I am also not happy to be playing dienstmaedchen… a nursemaid to you. What was it you said? Errand-girl, Ja?"

Anderson merely grunted a response. It didn't take them long to reach the imposing structure of Trafalgar Square. The place was alive with foot traffic and carriages - handsome cabs and small traps rattled across the eastern the periphery, whilst top-hatted gentlemen and umbrella touting women in petticoats and broad hats swanned between the fountains. Beyond stood the white pillared frontage of the new national gallery.

Considering the place was just over forty years standing the memorial column to Admiral Nelson was already developing a smudged greasy-grey patina of smoke-stains. Carefully, the pair crossed the gritty road, as traps and bicycles wended their way around them.

They crossed the plaza, passing a group of students, their bare faces and matching black suits flapping as they indulged in some youthful japery, whilst a gaggle of young women tittered nearby. Anderson could practically hear Vahlen's eyes rolling and caught a mutter of " _Und sie sind die Intelligenz von morgen.. Pah."_

They climbed the steps at the end of the plaza and entered the gallery itself. Inside it was darker, cooler. The floor echoed with the footfalls of only a few patrons as they moved across, between the galleries. Moira led he up the stairs to the more recent artworks - modern art like that French chap Monet, or the rather striking work of Turner.

The gallery was strangely empty, save for a man in a green jacket and a beige, high collared shirt. He turned at their approach, revealing a white waistcoat beneath the jacket. A brown bowler hat finished off the eclectic look. He struck Anderson as a man not comfortable in his attire, as if he were out of sorts.

The man took off his hat at Moira's approach and bowed. He took her hand and gave it a quick kiss, then straightened and extended a hand to William. When he spoke it was with a twang that marked him as from the Americas.

"Doctor Vahlen, glad you managed to find our guest. Much obliged. Major Anderson, I'm John Bradford. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

William rested his hands on his cane and leaned forward slightly looking the man up and down. Credit to the fellow, he didn't seem put out, "Indeed. Thank you for the welcome, Mr Bradford. I take it from your bearing you are of a military persuasion?"

Bradford glanced at Vahlen, who just shrugged, "That I am, sir, currently, ah, enjoying a leave of absence."

William nodded and glanced at the painting the man had been admiring - _Wreck of a Transport ship,_ "An interesting study for you, sir?"

"I think most of our common man finds a fascination in destruction."

"More's the pity. So, a Swiss Doctor and an American soldier. Enlisted man, sir?"

"No, Major. Captain, West Point graduate."

"A fine establishment, I am told. Has it quite recovered from your little," here Anderson waved a hand airly, " _fracas_ between North and South?"

Bradford eyed him coolly and smiled, "Probably no worse off than your little spat with the Fenians, am I right? I mean, you read the accounts, we brought freedom to the known world, liberated the oppressed and have brought about an era of peace and understanding."

The men regarded each other and Anderson nodded slowly, "But you aren't so sure?"

"Major, when you're knee deep in muck with your rifle in the guts of a guy born twenty miles from you, knowing that maybe a few months down the line all of it means squat? You'll pardon my candour, sir, but I feel it's bunkum. Men marched, men died, men signed paper."

"But you wouldn't have been able to hold a rifle then, wouldn't have seen those killing fields."

"My father, sir. Confederate through and through. He and I didn't see eye to eye as I was growing up; that desire to right the wrongs done to the south. Just the nature of the men I killed… some of my paymasters wouldn't give 'em the decency of definition, sir. Let's just say I'm in on this little venture for probably the same reason you'll sign up, too"

Anderson gave him a bemused look, "Awfully assumptive, there, old chap. I still don't know what this 'venture' is all about. Aside from a scenic tour of the city."

Vahlen stepped away from the painting she was inspecting and glanced between the two men, "Ja, I believe we have familiarised ourselves well enough? Come."

The trio walked through the gallery and back out to the plaza. A pair of handsome cabs were stood nearby, their drivers chatting idly. Moria led the men to the cabs and smiled at the men.

"Kensington, _bitte_. Imperial college."

One of the men snorted, "Kensington stout, you mean love. The bitter down there ain't worth piss."

His fellow elbowed him and tugged his forelock, "'Course ma'am. Step in please."

The three of them managed to squeeze in, making for a rather uncomfortable ride. They rattled down the Mall, where Anderson watched a squadron of the Horseguards out for their morning ride - breastplates gleaming and helmets well-plummed. He shook his head and saw Bradford watching curiously.

"Ostentatious popinjays, the bally lot of them."

Bradford looked at him, "Not a particular proponent of the cavalry, Major?"

"They have their uses. But you get buggered. Pardon madame, if you base your entire strategy around their deployment. Also, that's a lot of bally polish and wax."

"Can't say that I disagree. Mind you, that bunch could probably blind you just by advancing. No need to charge."

Anderson chuckled, "Also, I found the Cavalry tended to be rather passionate in the melee. Not good skirmishers."

"What, they don't use firearms?"

"Oh they have them. But the attitude is that a decisive _thrust_ of horseflesh will break a line. Infantry are they to hold the buggers in place so they get a good chance to trim some foreign bugger's neck."

Bradford chuckled and adjusted himself in the seat, earning a sniff from Moira, "Good to see that there's some things consistent across the waters. That apple doesn't fall far from the tree, now, eh?"

"Whilst this discussion of strategic parity is of course _fascinating_ , we are here."

The handsome had drawn up in front of the grand edifice of the Royal Albert Hall. Hyde park, opposite, was fresh with Londoners enjoying the pleasant weather and Anderson could see serried ranks of deck-chairs already set up for idling patrons. He looked back up at the towering monument to the Widow-Queen's late husband, then stepped out of the handsome, offering a hand to Moira. She took it and stepped down, not even giving the red building a second look. Bradford meanwhile let out a low whistle.

"You boys do build 'em big. Compensating?"

Anderson frowned at him, "I may be a jaded man, sir, but this is a monument of sorts."

The American held up a hand placatingly, "I'm sure. So, where to now Moira?"

 _So informal._ Anderson sighed and gestured, "Are we part of a grander gathering? That requires such opulent setting?"

"We are required in the Museum, gentlemen. And, Major, I would appreciate a reduction in the facetious commentary until _post_ discussion. Then you may heckle as you please."

"Dang, she got you there, sir."

The Major grunted and gestured for Moira to lead the way. Bradford and he trailer her like a pair of naughty school-boys after a Governess. They made their way down Exhibition road, passing only a few people, mainly porters and a single policeman. Moira led them into the museum not through the grand front entrance, but a side entry-way. A tradesman in overalls ushered them inside then led them through several twists and turns. This was not the museum proper that the general public would be exposed to; no these were the arteries that allow academia to flourish - thoroughfares of material, sustenance and scientific.

They came after a few minutes to a small laboratory setup - one wall was dominated by a huge dark-panelled cabinet, with fifty or so small drawers. A desk, inlaid with a leather top, sat at one end of the room, whilst a long work bench sat in the middle, like some strange variation on a dining room table. Anderson found himself pausing - he'd expected the thing to be dominated by alembics and gas burners. Instead there were trays of seemingly organic components, rocks, even the odd document.

"Impressive. So, which bigwig does this place belong to then?"

Moira paused as she approached the desk, then turned to smile at Bradford, "Me."

Anderson blinked and he saw Bradford goggle, "Excuse me ma'am, but surely? I mean, not meaning to disrespect, but, well…"

She sighed, "For such self-acclaimed and far sighted men, you are both exceedingly disappointing. A woman is more than capable of achieving a doctorate _and_ advancing. Even with you hidebound institutions across the continent. I studied under Mary Somerville and Elizabeth Garret Anderson. A relative of yours, Major?"

He harrumphed and gave a short nod. "Father's side, cousin of cousins I believe, I stand suitably admonished, _Doctor._ "

Moira nodded curtly, then placed her clasp on the desk and rang a bell. A porter appeared and nodded at the men, "Yes'm?"

"Gustav, could you please fetch a pot of tea. I feel the gentlemen will require it."

"Yes'm".

Major Anderson composed himself and placed the cane in the umbrella rack by the door, then removed his gloves and hat. Bradford did the same, sticking his gloves into his jacket pocket and tossing the hat onto a hook. The Major noted that Moira had moved to the other side of the large table. Anderson noted something large and low covered in a sheet in the middle - about five feet long and three wide by his estimation. Moira regarded both of them.

"I am expecting another few attendees, but they have already seen what I need to show you, Major Anderson. Captain Bradford is here to corroborate this and to illustrate, along with myself, the impact of these discoveries _and_ breadth of their implications."

She pulled the sheet away from the item and Anderson practically stumbled backwards. His heart-rate flushed and he grasped for support that wasn't there. Bradford was suddenly beside him, concern etching his features. Moira seemed shocked too. Anderson couldn't tear his gaze away from the _thing_ on the table. The _thing_ in the tank of formaldehyde.

It had no mouth. It's eyes were black and pupil-less - and utterly blank. The head was a grotesque shape, enlarged and bulbous. The limbs seemed wiry and reminiscent of a monkey. The skin, even through the yellowing shade of the preservative fluid, was unmistakably _grey_.

"I killed them all? I thought I killed them _all._ "


	3. The plot thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Anderson has the world revealed to him.
> 
> Some more faces enter the game.

"-or Anderson? Are you ok?"

He managed to get his breath under control and shot Moira a venomous look, "Is this some sort of _joke_ to you?"

Bradford steadied him again and patted his shoulder, "Easy, sir, easy. What's got you so riled?"

Anderson pointed a shaky finger at the _thing_ , "I killed those. All of them. After they butchered… butchered everyone."

Moira and Bradford exchanged glances, and she gestured for Bradford to follow. They moved back to the desk, where Anderson was deposited into one of the leather chairs. Bradford leaned against the desk itself, whilst Moira sat in her own chair. The porter returned and Moira beckoned him over.

"Gustav, be so kind as to also raid Andrey's private stash. He won't mind and if he says something, remind him he owes me for breaking the last microscope, _ja?_ "

The man nodded and vanished again, leaving the teapot and cups on the desk. Moira leaned forwards.

"I was not expecting that reaction, Herr Anderson. I had been told you would be a man sympathetic, but this is… interesting."

The Major took a breath and narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, "I am not inclined to exactly divulge that, considering you have a ruddy _monster_ in your office."

Bradford chewed his lip and shrugged, "You want to know why? 'Cos my boys and I shot it."

Anderson stared at the American, "I don't recall you being in South Africa five years ago."

"Wasn't. This one's from New Mexico."

Moira stood and poured a cup of tea out, then proffered it to Anderson, "I believe you are owed full disclosure, Major. I.. .apologise for the reveal. I had intended to impress upon you the eldritch nature of what we will discuss; I was unaware of your prior encounters."

Anderson sagged a little, "No reason you would be, Doctor. After the absolute debacle with Cetshwayo any report out of Praetoria was redacted and parsed through God knows how many clerks. Anything beyond strange or that could destabilise things further… flagged."

He shrugged and Bradford nodded, "That's why you're a prickly sort around military, right?"

Anderson tilted his head, "Only partly. Hell, I only told them half the truth - I mean, really. Gremlins? Stealing corpses and men in the night? I'd have been discharged, my reputation tatters. As it were, it's taken them this long to bother checking on my current trajectory."

"Hmm." murmured Moira, "So, the beast?" Anderson eyed her, then let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"So, back before the Boer showed us how to actually fight in the Veldt, we had a really _really_ unnecessary spat with the Zulu. You remember Isandlwana? Well, I was there, one of a handful to get out. Bloody mess. Hard to believe it was only, what, 6 years ago. So, there I was, newly minted Major. I had requested to go with Chelmsford after what we thought was the main body of the Zulu. Well, turns out they were craftier; I had my suspicions - the tribesmen of the Veldt are a clever lot. Capable too. We assume so much, assume our guns and canon make us invulnerable. That our technology and history make us unassailable. They put paid to that idea; all it takes is a poorly prepared position and you are done, sir."

He took a sip and Bradford crossed his arms, "Read about that at College. Case study in defense planning. The instructors weren't exactly charitable to you boys."

"Or lack thereof sir. Chelmsford left a Commissariat chap, Pullaine, in charge and ignored doctrine. Tried to blame the poor bugger, dead though he was, after the fact. The chap, he did his damndest. We did ask why he didn't leave I or one of the Infantry in command… all about seniority. You know, "when did you Commission' and that rot. But that isn't the main thrust, no. The Zulu routed the place. Let me tell you, an Army without command is a brawl. And the Zulu can brawl. It was me, some fellows from the 1st and 24th of foot and a few of the Natal Carbineers. We fought to the edge of the camp, but no sign of Chelmsford. So, we did what most sane men would do, we moved off fortified position. Whole camp was too spread out, too many Zulu. confusion - quartermasters not sending out ammunition. The Zulu withdrew and we had to foray back into the camp to resupply. Carnage doesn't do it justice."

He glanced back at the table, "And that's when those things decided to make a show of it."

Moira nodded, "Go on,"

"It was dark and we knew Chelmsford would be back. But being out on the perimeter meant being vulnerable without a wider camp to cover you as well. So…. we went back into the charnel pit. Did what we could in the fading light. What they didn't tell you was that there were more survivors. We managed to get at least twenty men, wounded, plus another ten capable bodies. God knows how many others were out there in the dark though. We could hear the moans, the screams - thought it was just men succumbing to their wounds. Whole hospital tent had been burnt to the ground, so no chance for those on the edge. First I knew it was something else was one of the Natal lads going down screaming. His face, burned right off. No idea where they came from, thought they were throwing firebombs. Lost seven of the 1st and 24th fellows. Then I watched as another Carbineer just put his own rifle under his chin and pull the trigger. I didn't even know their names, half of them. Just more men to add to the ledger."

Bradford was nodding, his face pale, "Holy Mary, Mother of God."

"I took a shot or two at the shadows, winged one of them. Don't know how they scream without a damnable mouth. Watched them go. Haven't a clue what they were after - think they were looting of all things. One of the Natal said they were Jackal-Demons, or Anansei gone dark," he shook his head, "Curse me for a fool, followed them. My blood was up. We'd survived a whole damn Zulu onslaught just to get murdered my a group of imaginative baboons? Saw them vanish into a cave. Went in. Followed them through the caverns until I got stopped at a door. A bloody _door_. Found another way round, in the dark, through a crack. Got a vantage point - some cave, threaded through with strange tables and those _things_ scuttling here and there. They were dragging men - alive and dead, feeding them into machines. The bastards didn't make a sound as they were doing it. All I could hear were the shrieks of the men."

Anderson set the cup down, his hands shaking, then stood and walked back to the table. He stared long and hard at the creature. Bradford and Moira exchanged glances then joined him.

"I got out of there - couldn't do anything. The strangest thing though… these things didn't act as if they had a purpose. Reminded me of watching someone at a mill, back home. Woman who'd worked there for years. She just moved like an automaton, eyes glazed over, not there. These _things_ did the same. Every movement so strange and yet still somehow uniform. Regimented but not in a way that comes from drill. More like ants. I can tell you, I made a sharp departure as soon as decorum allowed. Tried explaining what I'd seen; was thought I'd been driven battle-mad or caught the sun. Had to plead my case to not be summarily discharged there and then. Managed to claim it'd been night terrors and fortified myself, that it must've been a 'heathen ritual' I'd seen in the dark - that went down better.

Anderson sighed then glared at the glass case, turning his gaze to Moira, "Wasn't until the end of '79, once we'd routed the Zulu… I took some of the Engineers, a few of the infantry lads as well, on what I told the Colonels was a bit of an exercise, a reconnoitre of a stash. Went back to that damnable cave. Some of the lads, well, they'd been there too, or seen something just as queer around the edges of the camps. You get deserters now and then but they knew better. Lads had been taken."

He stopped and breathed heavily. Bradford frowned, "What happened?"

"We went in, of course. Twenty five brave souls on what I thought was a mission of mercy. Had the engineers put charges at the entrance, infantry dug in outside. Led the rest down. Battlefield was cleared by then - oh there were still the burnt bits of tent and melted canon. Some of us British folk, the Zulu, the locals - everyone took their carrion. Perhaps even those troglodytes took a few as well - it isn't as if you post guards on an empty battlefield these days."

Bradford leaned forward, "How come no one else found this cave of yours?"

"Not a bally clue. Hardly a well travelled place; there were some woven fetishes here and there, those marble talismans a few of them carry, hung from trees. I think the locals _knew_. Mind, we nearly didn't find it ourselves, even though I left markers, ties the lot. And what we found…."He exhaled, "These things are not bloody baboons. Steel doors. Metal floors. And death. Five men down in the first three minutes. Spalding was the first - got hit in the arm, thought it was a glancing shot. Until he started screaming.

Anderson's eyes went glassy as he recalled the sight, "His arm… just fell off. The flesh was burned, dissolved, right through. Had two chaps try to drag him out but he died outside. At least he was in the sunshine. Pendllebury went next, took a shot to the head, vapourised. At least it was quick. Skinner, Farrelly, Johnson, Rutherford, Smith, Tanner, Roberts, McCready, Greg, Ingleby. Hell, we barely got past the first door. I thought it was a Boer bunker of sorts. But the weaponry they had..., it was like Satan himself was spitting at us, throwing hellfire and madness. I saw Johnson shoot Ingleby in the back, then charge at Garrick. Men had to gun him down before he got the chance to bayonet someone. So, I had one of the engineers roll a barrel in there with a short fuse and we left. Lost five more getting out of the cave. We got out and torched the damn place."

"Normally I discourage the use of explosives when dealing with entirely new fauna…" muttered Moira, which earned her a frown from Bradford.

"I thought we got them all. Or at least sealed them up tight. Had the men do a search for two days, checking for other caves, holes, burrows _anything_. No, we got them, Got a glimpse of one of them before we sealed the door. Bigger than the others. Well, its head was at least." The major shook himself and looked at the other two, "Wrote it up after talking with the NCOs… we called it a cache of weapons that was booby trapped; likely unsavoury elements and that we elected to deny the supplies rather than become entrenched. I only mentioned the things once, in a Mess in Aldershot, after a regimental dinner. An anecdote of the most queer thing we'd seen. I… embellished certain bits, left out others. But still, never quite the same. Of course, I had a bit of a reputation then, anyway. But that's a different story."

Bradford nodded, "Queer is right, sir. We were out tracking down a smuggling ring on the border, rumours of Mexican sponsors. Found a weird cave of these things… sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

"Yeah, real weird. They were in this cave, but it was… open, dusty. Seemed abandoned. They were in jars, like some sort of lab. There was metal but it was all broken, smashed to pieces. Broken jars too. Think they were nearly dead. Except for two that took a liking to my boys. Got three of them cold, watched them just melt like they were… water. One of them we just riddled, it was so much dog chow. That one one of my boys nailed it from fifty metres down a dark corridor."

"Which brings me to my next query - why is it here and not in one of your own museums?"

Moira gave a small smile, "Because no one there believed them. Thought it was a dressed up monkey. Not until they brought it to me after one of my talks to a women's institute. I think they were desperate. And frankly, it was my good fortune."

"Fortune, eh?"

Moira gave him a tight look, "Contrary to popular belief, science is not about inventing the next tonic to sell to the addled _bauer_. _Nein_ this is a chance to understand something. And to perhaps prevent something," She gestured to the thing in the glass, "What are they? Where do they come from? What do they _want_?"

Anderson's jaw set, "Several volleys of the best of British Infantry fire, if I have my way."

Moira cocked her head, "And that may be necessary, Major. But there is a chance to _learn_ as well. Now, I promised full disclosure. Again, I apologise, perhaps we should have started with that, rather than my flair for the dramatic."

Bradford snickered and shrugged at Anderson's weary glare, "What, it's funny in retrospect. You ever seen a Prussian make a joke?"

" _Swiss."_

"Eh."

Anderson shook his head and followed Moira as she led the pair of them out of the room, but not before tugging the sheet back over her prize. Her attitude, Anderson noted, was quick and clear. There was a certain look she gave the creature though, like a child with their present on Christmas, ready to tear it apart for the gift within.

The good Doctor led them through to a meeting room. The room was darker, with the curtains drawn and the shutters closed, clearly for the sake of privacy and the prevention of overwatch from the terraced houses and offices opposite. The gas lamps gave a gutter dim light. The room had several people waiting, a pair of uniformed gentlemen standing by the fireplace, with three more sat in chairs at the end of the table. The large wingback chairs further obscured their occupants, with the ruddy light of the gas lamps casting shadows over the occupants.. One of them leaned forwards, light reflecting off a bald pate, but the wings prevented too much detail from being revealed.

" _Hello_ , Major," intoned the voice. It was deep, with a strange burr to it. American? West Country? "In light of the recent discoveries, the Council has been convened to discuss a possible contingency plan. We would like to discuss your willingness to lead this initiative."


	4. A wrinkle in the plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The realities of politics in Imperial Britain.
> 
> Officers and gentlemen convene.
> 
> An unknow foe makes preparations...

Anderson looked around the table, slowly, chewing his lip slightly, his eyes narrowed. He blinked and tapped his cane against the side of his shoe. He shot Bradford a glance - the man had moved near the door and only offered a shrug in return. Moira meanwhile had set herself into a chair, midway between him and the shadowy councilmen.

The two military men moved away from the fireplace - one wore the regimental attire of the First Kings Dragoon guards - all red tunic, gold braid and a sash across it. The second was a Grenadier, a man he didn't recognise. They were both Colonels - the epaulettes and sleeve adornments made that clear. He stared at the Dragoon for a moment and offered a small smile.

"Richard. I see they promoted you. Many congratulations - I should have noted it in dispatches."

The man nodded and gave a small smile, then took his seat, "William, good to see you. Glad you've decided to have an earwig on all this japery. Phillip here thinks is a cockamamie scheme by the Colonials, of course."

The Grenadier, all grey mutton chops and cold eyes regarded Anderson for a moment, "Ah. The monkey's paw. Richard, you didn't say we were getting the Aldershot bad luck charm."

Anderson twitched only slightly, "Do excuse me, _sir_ , I am not in uniform. However, if I were, I fear you'd have to upbraid me for failing to salute the commission. If there is one earned sat before me, of course."

The man, 'Phillip', bristled and half rose, "You damn counter-jumper, I'll not sit here whilst this ignominious stain is…"

"Sit down Phillip, before I make you," Richard's voice was calm, laconic. The Grenadier stiffed and glared at his companion, "William is an old friend. Can hardly blame a man for the poor decisions of his commanders. And he took an assagai for me, so show the man some respect. _Thank_ you."

William inclined his head then drew a chair out slowly, deliberately. He folded his hands on the table and looked at the Chairman, "So, sir. I am summoned from my breakfast, shown some hideous gremlin and now, if you'll forgive me, I am sat in honest-to-god _secret bloody society_."

Bradford snickered from the door and even Richard let a small smile cross his face. The Councilman nodded in the shadows, "I can understand your scepticism. We represent a number of interested parties - representatives from nations, from private enterprise and from the military. People who have concerns about what the next war could look like."

William nodded slowly, "Forgive me, I known Richard of old. I can understand his presence, to a point. Phillip…?"

" _Colonel_ to you, _Mister_ Anderson."

"Still got my commission, Colonel. And you still have the advantage of me, small though it is."

Richard leaned forward, "Tasseter, Baron."

"Thank you sir. Well, Colonel Tasseter, I haven't the foggiest why you're here. I doubt you are at all interested," The man scowled and leaned back, not answering, "Very well. So, an alliance of common interest against, what? Cave dwelling troglodytes and bumpkins?"

One of the other figures leaned forwards, revealing a face with a neatly trimmed beard and darker features - Spanish? French? The man slid an envelope across the William. He opened it and slipped the contents out. There were four photographs and a few long-hand reports. William had to stop himself gasping at the photographs.

One was of a room - the monochromatic nature made details more difficult to make out, but it was angular, with strange beds jutting from metal walls. Pipes looped into drainage canals on the beds themselves. And on the beds were men and women - some in strange garb, likely the indigenous people; others wore suits and military garb.

Another picture was of several of the strange little creatures, an example of which was floating in Doctor Vahlen's lab. They were lined up on a white sheet, quite dead, with several Indian men in turbans and rifles squatting behind them.

Another one showed a crevasse, at the very bottom of which could be seen one of the creatures near an open door. The creature was dead, but the areas was clearly inaccessible.

The final one showed a picture of Mars - very grainy, clearly taken through a telescope and not well adjusted for the lenses. Anderson frowned and looked up.

"So, more gremlins. Easily killed it seems. And a picture of what I assume to be Mars. Forgive me, sirs, but I am not leaping to any drastic conclusions here."

Tasseter snorted and leaned forward, "isn't it obvious, man? Seditious elements! Some form of trained natives, or lost tribe, being ferreted away by God knows who. For God knows what purpose."

Anderson had to concede there was _something_ to that. He glanced at the reports - dry recounting, commentaries on the strange crypts and the status of the survivors within. If they could be called that. Several, it seemed, were located in whatever counted for institutions for the mentally impaired in the locales - convents, asylums, sanitariums or just left in the street to wither away after their "rescue."

What did strike him were the listed locations in the reports - Central India, Kenya, Siberia! These things weren't just an African issue. He looked up at the Chairman.

"Alright. Strange events certainly. But why all this? And why Mars."

Tasseter again, "I just said."

Anderson looked at him and raised a hand. The man turned purple, it seemed. Moira it seemed was distracting herself but a smile had edged onto her face. Clearly she was _not_ a fan of the man, "All I see is a bunch of static little monsters. No coordination, as yet."

The Councilman spoke with his gravelly tone, "What you see here is a sudden surge in activity by creatures of an unknown origin. Our…. esteemed Doctor Vahlen has several theories. We have observed a common pattern among these Visitors. They are primarily focused on gathering material, primarily living creatures, for apparent study. Research indicates they have been active for some time, but have recently had a surge. Reports from across the globe indicate sightings far in excess of what we have observed."

Bradford chimed in, "Anderson said these things acted with a single purpose, like ants."

"Indeed. These, _Insectoids_ , are focused and diligent. However, erratic behaviour has been observed."

Anderson nodded, "They were very… uniform within their bases. But outside, they were more like dogs - circling, trying to find an opening in our lines. It wasn't like fighting men, more a pack."

Moira coughed, "I find the term insectoid to be factually incorrect - the specimens exhibit superficial _mammalian_ features and are limited to four limbs."

"Yeah, but _mam-ay-le-oyds_ doesn't exactly roll of the tongue, all easy, now does it ma'am?" drawled Bradford. Moira sighed.

"I understand you have your limitations, _Captain_. I will accept this coarse violation of the scientific nomenclature. But I protest."

"Duly noted, _Doctor_ Vahlen. Your work is a credit to your sex and to our endeavour," intoned the Councilman, "But to continue - there is an overarching pattern, an intent. What that is in the long term, we cannot be certain. But it is inimical to human life in the environs near their bastions. As to your second query: Mars. An increase in seismic activity has been recorded by your Greenwich observatory," the man pronounced the word "Gren-Witch", which grated a tad, "As well as by astronomers across the globe. We have received reports, telegraphed to our agents, of notes shifts in the canals on the planet."

Anderson nodded slowly, "So, you believe these things are Martians? Seriously, sir?"

"No. We believe Mars too far to pose a realistic origin. These beings acting in such a way at the same instance _could_ be coincidence, or it could be a reaction."

Anderson shook his head, "Reacting?"

"Like the tides to the moon perhaps," suggested Richard, "Or a woman to her…" he quieted at Moira's withering gaze.

"Indeed. We have one report from a man we believe you are acquainted with - Professor Ogilvy, of the Woking observatory? Yes," the shadowy figure lifted a piece of paper from in front of him, "Yes, ' _the chances of anything coming from Mars, are a million to one_ ,' he said. We are inclined to believe him - no industry on this planet, at the peak of our capacity, has proven the ability to reach the stratosphere, let alone the cosmos."

Tasseter snorted, "Precisely, unless one was to try to take a balloon across there, but I doubt we'd find anywhere with enough ruddy puff."

Anderson was quietly amused at the faintly exasperated glances shared, even by the slightly obscured councillors. However, he focused on the man at the end of the table, "All well and good. As I said, some scary monkeys from folklore and bad weather on a planet hardly seems to be high on the agenda of the Freemasons. Unless it's been a quiet year in banking and I didn't notice?"

"Very droll, _Major_. No, we require someone to oversee military and civil actions to counter any potential threats these beings could pose. A committee, if you will, with funding and backing to investigate across the globe."

Anderson sat back and exhaled, "Quite a blank cheque there, sir. But you have two very… _capable_ men here. Why me?"

There was a brief moment of silence, quickly filled, "You have experience, capability and command respect. You are not of such senior rank that you will be missed from the public eye. And you have prior experience."

Anderson's eyes narrowed, "You knew about South Africa?"

"We had our... _suspicions_. Well founded, you will agree."

"And what is the name of this _committee_ that you are all a part of?"

"We are the _Exemplo Aliud Libertatem Trimphare_ \- we have always looked for ways to preserve mankind against extremes. These visitors present a chance in the nature of the world. There is a change in the way the world conducts war, as it becomes more connected. You have seen the results of nations with more in the ways of technology coming into contact with those lower down the tree. It does not end well. We want to avert that."

Anderson nodded slowly, "How? By rooting out these things? Killing them all?"

"Whilst they are strange, they are in possession of technology that seems beyond us. Or beyond what those of us _here_ know. We must know whether there is some hidden agenda at work here, one of the players of the Great Game moving an unknown piece onto the board. Or we should countenance the concept of a new player entering the field."

"So, they are either colonists or to be colonised, that's our choice? Their wealth to be plundered?"

Tasseter leaned forwards, "Sounds like you sympathise with the little heathens, Anderson."

He regarded the man with a tight smile, "I can hate without wanting to be a vindictive _arse_ , sir," he looked back at the Councilman and was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head, "i'm afraid my answer is a no, sir. This is a _generous_ offer, but I am enough of an old soldier to recognise dead ground. The remit is too large, the objective too opaque. And I fear I am seen as a somewhat expendable element for a venture that, if you will forgive me for saying, seems somewhat of a flight of fancy."

The Council members began muttering, but the lead man held up a hand for silence, "Go on, Major,"

"So, there are strange creatures across the planet. So? Darwin showed there to be finches in the Galapagos. We have finches here. Apes roam Asia and Africa; Tigers, Lions. We have pyramids across every continent - do we claim them to be built by the same hand? No, sir. This all seems tenuous. Fascinating but tenuous. And you don't need someone like me to read reports from some over enthusiastic archaeologist fawning over fancy ruins in some hellpit of a nation."

Tasseter seemed to be unable to settle on being furious or smug. He compromised, "Told you all we need a chap with proper backbone, pedigree, can follow _orders_."

Richard harrumphed and frowned at Anderson, "You do know your upward career in the military is, well, somewhat stunted. This is a good chance to move up in some small way."

Anderson smiled and splayed his hands, "Not all of us were cut for high staff office, sir. But I fear that, despite you good intent, this is something of a poison chalice. What if it finds nothing? What if all these things are are a hideous malformed pygmy tribe? Because I can tell you we found no weapons on their bodies. Just broken metal. Monkeys with firebombs in a lost burial tomb."

Anderson stood abruptly, leaning a little on his cane. He pushed down hard, to stop it rattling in his hand. Moira stood, a frown creasing her face and an expression of… what? Disappointment? Frustration? Maybe her position wasn't as assured and she'd wanted an ally in this male-dominated arena. If not a woman, then at least a more sympathetic ear?

Well what did he owe them? This morning he'd been looking forward to doing the crossword on the train and maybe taking cigars in the mess back in Aldershot.

The room was silent, then the Councilman spoke, "I understand, Major. However, we won't accept this as your final decision just yet. Please, take a few days. Think on it. Captain Bradford, if you would show Major Anderson out? Doctor Vahlen, please stay. We have other matters to discuss."

Outside the doors the air felt slightly fresher. The room had had a strange cloying sense to it - inlaid oak and a roaring fire in the middle of a warm day added to it. Anderson leaned on his cane and let out a breath. Bradford watched him, "You ok? This thing has you rather, rattled, sir?"

Anderson gave him a brittle smile, "Rattled? No. Just don't want to be taken for a fool. Had my fair share of… unfortunate expeditions."

"About that," they walked towards the stairs at the end of the hall, "What'd he call you? Monkey's paw?"

"Ugh, bastardised myth. A talisman that brings misfortune despite promising riches. In summary, I'm associated with loss. After we won against the Zulu I got shipped to bloody Afghanistan - I think that was Chelmsford getting me out of the way. I was there at Maiwand, attached to the 66th. The battery I was nearest was engaged and we made a retreat. Left the poor buggers to die at Khrig. After that, when we retook Kandahar. Then I got 'forgiven' and returned to the regiment in South Africa. And then the ruddy Boer War happened."

He rubbed his eyes and Bradford gave him a sympathetic look, "Only a couple of hits, though."

"That's all it takes. That and some officers with an axe to grind. I don't begrudge to be fair. Lots of bad blood after that affair. Utterly unnecessary. Some abject dunder raised an illegal tax and the Boer reacted. And they showed us. Ever face a Boer commando group? Irregulars, they don't form lines, they don't march neatly towards your entrenched position. No. They snipe at you like it's grouse season. But they do it from undergrowth, with inferior weaponry. They adopt the principle of 'every shot counts.' What use is a volley of fire against foliage, man? So, after some failed attempts, off we went out of the Transvaal. Well, nominally. But still."

He chuckled lifted the cane, leaning it against his shoulder. Bradford shrugged, "Still seems unreasonable. And you're expecting similar? Seemed like you knew that Colonel - didn't that help?"

"Richard? Ah, yes, Richard Marter. Knew him at Ulundi. He was a Major then. Fell off his horse. Took me, an infantry lad, to save him. Well, he saved me just as much in that melee."

"A cav man you like? I'm shocked?"

"I can like individuals. It's institutions I have issues with," Footsteps behind them made them turn, "And speak of the devil."

Colonel Marter approached and nodded at Bradford, "If you wouldn't mind Captain, I'd like a moment with my old friend."

"Of course sir," Bradford headed down the corridor and loitered at the stairwell. Marter looked at Anderson and tutted.

"A golden opportunity, William. Really, why?"

"You are buying into this cockamamie claptrap?"

"Perhaps. I think there is something here, Bill, something we need to grasp."

"And what is that?"

"An advantage. A chance for once to be ahead of the game. The Empire is swatting at flies; insurrection, jealous rivals, overgrown businesses. Did you know the East India Company ransomed a naval vessel in Khartoum? Getting to big for their boots."

"If this is so important, where's the minister? The Wolseley ring? The Roberts ring lot? They vying over this excellent opportunity?"

"I'd be lying if I said they weren't curious."

"And there's my point, Richard. This goes well, they'll swoop in and give it to a crony. It goes bad or is seen as yet another campaign drain, whoever is in charge will get the short shrift. As you said, I'm on thin ice as it is. Can't a man just fade into quite insignificance."

"Oh tosh, William. You're spooked, I'll grant you that. But you never ran from a good fight."

"Is this what it is? Hunting gremlins in caves? And hoping their tombs yield up a cavalcade of what? Another archaeological find?"

"There is the risk - what if they are a new threat? Or some new weapon secreted by forces unknown."

Anderson deadpanned, "Really?"

Richard cracked a smile, "Well, had to see if that one would work again. No, I doubt even the Russians have the reach for this. Or the Austro-Hungarians for that matter."

Anderson reached out and clasped Marters shoulder, "As I said, I will think on it. But some similar looking tribes across a few countries, whilst interesting, is hardly cause for an Inquisition. So, you'll forgive my scepticism. If I find the waning days of training the next incumbent officers dull, then I will revisit."

"Consider quickly. We will be finding _someone_ to head this little venture up. And I'd rather we had a true born Englishman in there."

"Even if I am a, what was it he said, _counter jumper_?"

"Tosh. Your old man was a gentleman. And Tasseter is only _just_ a Baron, so hardly in a position."

"My father was the son of a grocer made good."

"And? My great grand-father was a privateer. Don't put stock in this tosh. Another reason I need a clear thinker in here, not a hidebound fool with delusions of grandiose empire."

Anderson blinked, "Well now, hardly what I expected, Richard."

"Piffle. Anyway, Bradford should have a contact card for the telegram. Does the Aldershot Mess have a telephone yet? I imagine not. Now, crack on, old boy and I hope I'll be getting a note saying you'll at least have a crack, what?"

"Let me sleep on it."

"Good enough. And next time you in town, let me know. Marjory would love to catch up. She has some lovely friends, you know."

" _Good bye Richard!_ " This was delivered at a fast paced walk, Richard's booming chuckle echoing down the corridor. Bradford quirked an eyebrow.

"More of the same?"

"Indeed,"

"Well, I won't try to sway you. A man has to make his own mind, I reckon. Otherwise isn't he just another mans cats paw?"

Anderson nodded and smiled, "Insightful, Captain. What's your stake in this?"

"US Army pay is crap, pardon my frankness. I'm tired of cutting up Indians who just want to live. This way, maybe I can get some of the tarnish off."

Anderson nodded, not sure what to say? _You and I both, sir?_

They walked through the great hall of the main building, then exited from the front of the building this time, onto a paved plaza. Behind them , the grand arch of the museum loomed. The Captain harrumphed and offered a hand.

"A pleasure, Major. Only known you a day and you seem a stand up sort. Hope you consider their offer. I think they could use someone with prior knowledge."

Anderson chuckled, "Thank you Captain. But you haven't got a measure of my administrative capacity. I could very well be dire."

"Can't be worse than the Provisioners back home. As long as you haven't got any corned beef tins secreted on your person, we're good."

Anderson laughed, then touched his cane to his hat, and walked towards the cab-rank. He stepped into a handsome and tapped the roof, "The Metropole, please. Then Waterloo."

And with a clatter, the carriage set off. Bradford watched it go, then headed back inside. The doors shut with a _thunk._

* * *

Orbital assets report connection to monitoring and sample stations. Uploading data to **/self/**

_Report 1 - Location status_

_Report 2 - Capability update_

_Report 3 - Noted observations_

_Report 4 - Location data - Cultural development_

Report 1 - DOWNLOADING

Northern Hemisphere - 12 stations recorded as having active sensor readings. 86% loss of regional functionality

5 report **NULL** activity - locations **EXPUNGED [UNCONFIRMED]**

3 report limited active at locations

**\- 48.864716, 2.349014**

**\- 37.733795, -122.446747**

**\- 41.997222, 13.311239**

4 report unconstrained activity

**\- 30.358435, -81.606468**

**\- 56.065980, 49.773657**

**\- 36.693637, 97.096740**

**\- 8.971175, 9.437421**

Southern Hemisphere - 7 stations recorded as having active sensor readings. 74% loss

2 Report limited activity

**-27.189230, 135.675374 - ALERT local fauna hostile**

**-28.365210, 30.662686 - ALERT cave in reported**

4 Report unconstrained activity

**-12.802069, -71.934275**

**-2.978544, 18.971700**

**-2.943242, -48.265478**

**-74.578434, 40.720932 - ALERT temperature hazard detected**

Report 2 - DOWNLOADING

Assets: LIMITED

Fabrication: IMPAIRED (75% of locations exhibit impacted industrial capability)

Command: EXTANT - COMMANDER SUB VARIANTS ACTIVE

Aviation: **NULL**

_CLARIFY_

Aviation: Stations with avionics assets compromised due to: [theorising] tectonic abnormality

_RE-CALIBRATING_

_CONTINUE_

Surveillance: Active

Sample Status: Active [attached report for rate of acquisition of sample biomass]

Stasis units: Active [estimated current 53% margin of failure per salvaged sample]

Compatibility testing: Active

_CLARIFY_

Compatibility data pack dispatch. UPLOAD to Sol 4 **ARCHIVE**

 _Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

Potential match for [sub folder] **PROJECT AVATAR.** Collating data for access by **CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD - PRIORITY THETA**

_CONTINUE_

Attrition of WORKER forms unsustainable - estimate drawn from combat casualty rate of ENCOUNTER locations with species labeled _**HUMAN.**_ Anomaly site: **27.189230, 135.675374 -** caveat to rule. Local Fauna designated as WARFORM variant.

Infiltration: Inactive

_CLARIFY_

Cultural data assimilation = 35% complete. ERROR: Wetware central processing in all locations. Maintenance ongoing

Request partition of SOL 4 Wetware for data data sets with Report 4 - strategic observations.

 _Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

**GRANTED**

Report 3 - DOWNLOADING

 _ **HUMANS**_ most belligerent lifeform on SOL 3  
Severe damage to infrastructure between observation stations - cause of damage = variable. 85.3% of cases, cause is attributed to UNKNOWN seismic activity  
Growth of local CLONE STOCK limited due to damage to WETWARE processing units.  
Production of ground-side forces is limited  
Maintenance of facilities is limited  
Escalation warform printing: UNAVAILABLE  
7 locations compromised by _**HUMAN**_ activity  
Attrition of WORKER stock by _**HUMAN**_ activity

Report 4 - DOWNLOADING

MILITARY ANALYSIS - comparison complete

GOVERNMENTAL ANALYSIS - comparison complete

SOCIETAL ANALYSIS - comparison complete

Collectives of Threat identified

Military distribution - MAPPING ONGOING - LIMITED OVERWATCH CAPABILITY

Ground asset analysis - insufficient for immediate **EXPUNGE** option

 _Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

WARFORM COMMANDER VARIANTS ONLINE - UPLOADING DATA - designate recipients: WAR COUNCIL

REQUEST: **TACTICAL ANALYSIS**

Identify: beachhead

Identify: defensible positions

Identify: priority targets

Identify: attack phasing / deployment

SOL 3 ANALYSIS indicates vulnerability potential. MESSAGE: Monitoring stations - ESCALATION: INFILTRATION

 _Checking  
_ _Checking  
_ _Checking_

CONFIRMED RECEIPT

Change|Focus

Internal diagnostic on:

\- LAUNCH CANNON BATTERIES

\- LAUNCH BAYS

\- INVENTORY - SHUTTLE CRAFT

\- INVENTORY - CARGO SHIP

\- INVENTORY - BATTLE CRUISER

AWAITING REPORT.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first batch of chapters for your review... got MANY more good to go, so just let me know whatcha thiiiink!


	5. Portents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson begins his journey home.

Anderson barely registered the rest of the day - his baggage was collected uneventfully; the rattling carriage journey across the Thames to Waterloo was uneventful; the myriad boats and barges plying their trade along the river (to the point he could have probably walked across it without the use of a bridge, via some studious hops and leaps of faith) barely drew a glance from him.

The station itself was a bustling hubbub. He merely sat, lost in thought, in the waiting area - wooden benches crowded with commuters and holiday-makers ready to take the journey to the country-side.

He watched a few, absent-minded. A woman taking her brood on some sort of day trip, trying to marshal a trio of squabbling children; a man in a tweed suit and a monocle arguing with a steward; a young couple looking nervously about the station, clearly eloping. Frankly, if he'd been them, he'd have gone to Liverpool Street and tried to get to a port, rather than an island train, but then he was a pragmatist.

Wasn't he? Was he being pragmatic now? Well, yes, getting back to his posting - not gallivanting off on some damn-silly notion of occult superstition and supposition.

He watched a trio of men stalk across the expanse of the station. They wore funeral attire - top hat and tails. They paused as one and looked over in his direction then, as a triumvirate, they all reached up and touched the brims of their hats. All whilst staring straight at him. Anderson blinked then returned the gesture. The three men straightened and continued on their way. It left Anderson with a sickly feeling in his belly, as if someone had walked across his grave.

An announcement was called out by a ticket steward, announcing his platform and, suitcase grasped firmly, he headed through the throng, past the turnstiles and towards his train.

He was settled into one of the more plush cars - a six seater in first class. The conductor checked his stub and ushered him aboard, where he made himself comfortable. The journey would be a good two hours, barring track issues.

He unfurled the paper and began the crossword. A pair of women joined him in the carriage; elderly and quite, they were mostly concerned with their own gossip and left him to his paper after a short introduction. Soon, they were on their way, the gentle sway of the train soothing in its undulation. After a few minutes, Anderson found himself hungry, having realised he'd failed to buy any lunch.

With a sigh he folded his paper and laid it on the seat beside him, then stood. He slid the door to the cabin open and stepped into the corridor, then made his way back towards the buffet car. As he moved to the next carriage he drew up short as a figure emerged from one of the cabin-rooms. It was one of the strange be-suited gentlemen. As the man emerged, Anderson caught a glimpse of a slumped man and woman in the cabin, another of the strange men leaning over them. The view was obscured as the man in front of him clicked the door shut.

Anderson looked up and realised the man was taller than he, having to stoop slightly in the corridor. He also still wore his top-hat, which brushed awkwardly against the carriage roof. The man had a strange air about him - no real smell of anything. He wore dark glasses that hid his eyes and his face was part sneer part smile.

"Everything all right in there?"

The man tilted his head then made an abrupt nod that wobbled the hat almost comically, "Yes, _indeed_. Our travelling _companions, yes companions_. They have suffered a _swoon_. The stress, yes. Luckily, for them, yes, my colleagues and I are well _skilled_ at the medical practices of your _ah_ , culture."

"Thought medical practices were pretty universal, old boy."

The mans' smile deepened, almost condescending, "There are _more_ nuances in the world, _yes_. More than smelling salts and _as you_ would, ah say, balancing the humours? No, we are quite sure they will be _well_ taken care of, then be well on their way at the end, yes, end of their, ah, _journey_."

Anderson looked at the fellow, then glanced at the door. Then he offered a brittle smile of his own, "Well, jolly lucky they have you about, eh? Goodness knows, I'd have been hollerin' and shoutin' if someone went all faint on me! Not something you get told to deal with, you know?"

The tall man nodded that sharp nod again, "Yes, _yes_. Of course. No shouting, if you please. We do not wish _disturbance_ during such a delicate time. Will you be, _ah_ , on your way?"

"Hah! Yes indeed. Quite forgot myself! Forget me own head if it wasn't screwed on!"

The man leaned forward, and Anderson realised the man was staring at his neck. He caught a glimpse of something under the fellows collar - a sort of strange rash, but regular. He had a flashing image - a giraffe? Or some sort of reptile?

And then the man drew back and smiled, "Ah, yes, an idiom, Of course. You must _forgive_ me. My fellows and I…. we are from _elsewhere_. Yes."

"Ah, wondered why I couldn't place the accent. Americans?"

"No."

"Well, hope all goes well!"

Anderson stepped around the man and walked as fast as decorum and suspicion would allow to the end of the carriage, then dashed to the buffet cart. He collared the poor server there and asked in a hushed whisper for the guard. Luckily, he man was only in the cart to the rear, having not started his rounds proper. Anderson brought him up to speed.

"Major Anderson, Aldershot Training Wing. Noticed something untoward with a young couple in carriage E. Think they're being molested in some way by some strange fellows."

The guard frowned, "What do you mean sir?"

"Manhandled, man, abused."

"No, I mean strange, sir…"

Anderson looked at the man and settled on "Foreign."

The conductor nodded, "Always ruddy is. Right then sir, lead the way."

The pair of them wended their way back down the carriage until they reached the one where the strange man had been. The corridor was empty now and they checked the cabin. The couple were still there, much to Anderson's relief. But there was no sign of the trio of men. He looked around - the window was shut fast, there was no real sign of disturbance. He realised the conductor was looking at him askance. He sighed.

"They were here, sir. Maybe they've absconded," he looked at the couple then checked them - both were out cold, but breathing. Anderson stood up and realised his hand was wet - a faint red stain covered his fingers. On the mans neck was a puncture mark. He looked at the woman and saw something similar on her wrist. Quickly he beckoned the conductor over. The man frowned then nodded.

"Seems you were right sir - foul play. They alive?"

Anderson nodded, faintly impressed at the man's decorum. The conductor saw his look and shrugged, "Ten years as a sapper, sir. You get a bit used to stress on the job."

"Need to see if there's a proper doctor on the train. Then get these two poor devils off to check them. I'll look for the scoundrels."

"Right you are sir."

Anderson moved quickly. He pushed back towards his own cabin, then past it, towards the engine. It was only at the second to last carriage that he spotted one of the men, emerging from another cabin. The man fixed his bespectacled gaze onto the Major. Anderson realised he couldn't tell if this was the one he'd spoken to or another one. That unsettled him.

"You there! A word, if I may."

The man tilted his head then _snarled._ Anderson was taken aback. In a fluid movement the man had pulled some sort of medical tool from inside its jacket. The thing looked like a syringe of sorts, but with a nasty looking set of modifications. A hilt of sorts, for one. Anderson hefted his cane and yelled out, "I say, stop right there."

The suited-man charged. That actually wasn't _quite_ the word for it: he ran, but his limbs moved strangely, all sudden snapping movement. The syringe jutted out, a thrust by his assailant. Anderson managed to sidestep in the narrow space and cracked his cane onto the man's wrist. There was a sound like wet meat being slammed onto a chopping block; but not the crack of hardwood on bone. The man didn't even fumble. Instead he tried to re-position to stab Anderson again, his arm moving into a backward jab, the syringe flipping around in his grip.

William used his cane to push the gentleman away, causing the swipe to miss him by inches. He took advantage and swiped at the mans face, but the gentleman reared back at an impossible angle - a normal man would have toppled, but this one rebounded, striking forward. Anderson only just managed to deflect the strike again with a parry. He jabbed forward, using his opponent's momentum against him and cracked the man in the jaw. The fellow shrieked at a pitch Anderson had never heard from a mans lips - it had a reverb to it, as if two voices spoke as one.

He watched as the man stepped backwards and saw his jab had done something awful to the fellows' jaw. But then he blanched as the man simply gripped his own jaw and seemed to _reset_ it with a faint crack. Then, with a snarl, the gentleman lunged at him. Anderson deflected a rapid jab but then saw that the man wasn't interested in fighting anymore. Instead, he pushed past Anderson and sprinted for the door. He swore and followed, barely keeping pace with the loping movement of the _creature_. There was no way this was a normal man.

At the carriage end, the gentleman found himself with only the coal-car and engine left to climb over. Instead, to Anderson's surprise, the gentleman merely turned and smiled. Then it _leapt_.

He dashed forwards and looked up, realising they were going under a small brick bridge. For a moment he lost sight then the train emerged on the other side. Anderson leaned out to the side of the train and stared back at the bridge. He saw three figures atop it, dwindling as the train pulled away. The three raised their hands in a jaunty wave, all moving at _exactly_ the same pace. And then a bend in the track took them out of sight behind a cutting.

Anderson ducked back inside and shook his head. _What in all the hells is happening._

The rest of the journey was uneventful, thankfully. The conductor reported the couple were fine, albeit a bit disoriented and dazed - consistent with blood loss, according to one of the doctors they'd found aboard. Anderson and the guard had checked the other cabins and public areas, just in case, even forcing the train to wait at Woking briefly whilst they saw to the safety of the passengers. The Major took the opportunity to send a telegram from the station ahead to Aldershot, requesting a meeting at the station in Woking as well as to put the guards on alert in the camp as well as to ensure the local constabulary were alerted.

In total there were another ten passengers suffering from strange examples of blood loss, delirium and reactions similar to opiate abuse. These were lifted from the train at Woking whilst a pair of bemused Policemen took statements. Anderson advised them to liaise with Scotland yard, a statement that drew faint sighs from the two officers.

Quietly, Anderson advised the guard to stipulate it was a freak case and to not be too emphatic on this point. The man agreed and after a delay of only three hours, the train was on its way again. William couldn;t help but stalk the train, on edge in case of another encounter. He'd seen the things exit the train rather dramatically - no reason they couldn't replicate the feat in reverse.

The train was held at the station and Anderson waited, case in hand. Later into the afternoon his batman arrived atop a rickety wagon, clad his slightly ill fitting infantry uniform. He was accompanied by a corporal in the uniform of the Military Foot Police. Both men saluted and he returned the gesture with a grasp of his hat.

"Gentlemen. I trust my missive came through?"

"Yessir," that was his batman, Jefferies. A good lance-jack, if a bit dim. The policeman stepped forward - old for his rank, but then Anderson knew that he'd likely been recalled to the colours if he was a MFP.

"Got two, sir. One from the chaps in Woking too. We've got a description running down the trunk and back to Scotland Yard. A strange business, good job the conductor corroborated it."

"Sordid indeed. So, am I to brief you or to accompany you for questioning?"

The man looked shocked then shook his head, "No sir, not at all. I'm here to ensure your safe return to the Garrison, receive a debrief, then await any further instructions. The Sergeant major was very explicit on that front. Espionage, sir, that's the word being murmured. I believe the Commander would like a briefing at your convenience."

"Which means now, yes? Very well, if you could get me back to the Mess, gentlemen, I will ensure I am presentable."

It two hours to get to get to the South Camp, due to the state of the country roads and recent rainfall making the going slightly muddier than expected. They trundled past the barrier where bored infantry and artillery men stood guard. They offered up salutes as the trio rode past in the wagon, and Anderson paid them the respect due in return. At the mess, a squat, red brick building, he retrieved his case and bade the men wait for his return, to head towards the HQ.

The change didn't take too long. For one, his room in the mess was sparse - barely a bed, basin and wardrobe, so finding his uniform was hardly a challenge. Officer uniforms were only a tad more uncomfortable than civilian attire. Soon William had his navy blue trousers, red jacket and white belt and red sash in place, with his pith helmet under one arm. His sword he buckled to his belt, then, ensuring his boots looked suitably well polished, he stepped out of the front of the mess and let the men lead to the HQ.

The commandant, a fellow infantryman, was waiting in his office, signing off several reports. The adjutant showed Anderson in with a neat knock on the door to jolt the older man to attentiveness.

Anderson marched in smartly and stood to attention, waiting for the commander to finish his latest missive. After a few moments the man deposited the pen into an ink pot, then looked up at Anderson.

"William, quite a bit of a break you've had. Take a seat, none of this attention rubbish. Pomp and ceremony has its place, what."

"Thank you sir," Anderson relaxed - this was likely to not be an admonishment. Or an "interview without tea" as he'd heard one sergeant put it, a tad euphemistically, "And not quite what I was expecting from this morning."

"Quite. I've had a message from Richard Marter. Wants you seconded to his command, apparently. But only with your say so. And now I am told you were brawling on a train?"

"If i may sir, not brawling. Three vagrants attempted to molest civilians…"

The man waved a hand and chuckled, leaning back in his chair, "I'm messing with you, Major. No, I understand. Anything you can tell me? Useful intelligence?"

Anderson licked his lips and gave a half shrug, "I have no idea what they wanted, sir. Indications from medical staff we dragooned on the train, well… they claimed that the victims had been sampled, as it were. For what reason we aren't sure."

"Some sort of… germ warfare, perhaps?"

"As far as we were told, nothing had been added in, no hostile bacterium or deployment devices."

"Very strange. And how did these men abscond?"

"They… departed the train while it was in motion."

The commander blinked, "How?" Surely they'd be in dire straits. Especially if they were carrying… samples."

The Major pondered this, wondering how to explain the fact he'd seen a man leap twenty feet into the air. With pinpoint precision. "I am… unsure. They made their way onto a bridge. I assume they had an escape plan laid out in advance - a rope, or egress system."

"That would be the logical conclusion. Regardless, we haven't mobilised the garrison but we have alerted the guards to suspicious activity and spread a description, for what it is, to the men."

"Thank you sir,"

"Good. Now, regarding this Marter matter. Think hard on this. I know you're in a bit of an uncertain time, Major, but we do not let rumour define us. You're only seven months in here so a move may come across as unseemly - too ambitious to move up the political ladder."

"Understood sir. I was… disinclined to take up the offer."

"Oh?"

"Richard…. Colonel Marter is a good friend of old, but the offer was tenuous and sprung on me today. I was hoping to speak with you about it once I'd had time to get my head around it."

The older man nodded. "Makes sense, old bean. I know many of my ilk aren't the type to deliver mentoring, but one has to understand skill and merit in our roles. You've been an asset to the school of musketry and helped with the drilling something chronic. God knows the buggers need it. I swear, the recruiters are drumming in all the wrong places."

They exchanged a few more minor pleasantries; Anderson expanded a little bit on his fight, painting a picture of a skilled fighter, but certainly a _strange_ one. The Commander seemed satisfied and dismissed him to "go about the remainder of the day". The adjutant, sat at his desk outside the Commanders office, waved him off, keeping his own head buried in reports of one kind or another. Anderson walked back to the mess where he found himself one of only a couple of officers in for dinner - dumplings and roast vegetables. He retired to the smoking room afterwards, sharing polite small talk with his fellows, as well as a pipe and small glass of port.

His sleep that night was a disturbed one. In his mind he saw green flashes, explosions rocking the horizon. A billowing cloud that coalesced into the face of the leering man from the train, all black spectacles and looming intent.

No, He did not sleep well at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AS ever, comments are appreciated - what you liked / didn't like. This is very much a war story, in a more niche fandom for fanfic I know!


	6. May you live in interesting times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is perhaps persuaded to investigate.
> 
> Bradford phones home.
> 
> A new face lends their assistance.

The week passed mostly uneventfully - a routine of meals and drills, the mundanity of Garrison life ticked over. Polite conversation in plush armchairs over tea; watching men drill in the square, their hobnail boots clicking loudly against paved surfaces; the gentle, unsettling ribbing from junior officers. It was the Friday before anything substantive happened. The major was out on the ranges - several Companies of Infantry going through the various rifle drills, peppering distant straw men and sandbags with shot. He was walking the line behind the ranked men as the various drill instructions were called out by the instructor at the rear. The sun was creeping down towards the horizon as afternoon slid towards evening.

"At 300 yards, READY," all the men turned to have their left shoulders face down the range. At "2" they brought their rifles up; at "3" a round was readied and loaded, the cocking handle opening the chamber. At "4" they adjusted their sights. Anderson tapped his malacca cane into the palm of one hand as the sergeant-at-arms shouted, "PRESENT," and all the men on the line brought their rifles to their shoulders. There was a pause as the sergeant made them hold the heavy weapons steady before he then barked "2!"

The staccato of rifle fire echoed across the camp and the air was thick with grey smoke. The command "3!" came and the men returned the rifles to their side and ejected the rounds with a click of the cocking lever.

Behind the line, the soldiers waiting their turn at the line were going through dry-run drills in groups of ten, Corporals cursing their sluggishness, or singling out any fumbling trooper with a glare.

"Think the ruddy Zulu will give you a second chance, Hawkins? This ain't a bloody tombola you pillock! Ready, 2, 3, 4 - it's pretty bloody simple."

The Major paused and watched as a scrawny youth, his uniform clearly not quite grown into yet, hefted the rifle in his arms. The Martini-Henry Mk 1's were not light - solid wood and metal, they were effective close combat weapons in a pinch. The things were brutal in massed fire, sending .303 rounds down range in horrendous volleys. A practiced soldier could get 12 rounds down range in a minute. Of course, with the weapon, maybe only half of those shots would land; a steadier rate of fire would mean more accurate shots, but the rifle was designed to be part of a volley fire into massed enemy advance.

Idly, he pondered which of the troops out would be up for the School of Musketry in Hythe - get a decent cadre down there, pull together a solid marksman group to send back to Regiments as the designated skirmishers. He made a mental note to review the NCO reports following the day.

His musings were interrupted by the clatter of hooves and he glanced up to see the Commandants adjutant approaching. The man, Reynold Smythe, was a decent sort, someone who Anderson knew over the years. As an Adjutant, he was a Captain, but he also sat as the de-facto expressor of the Commandant's will on camp.

The man reigned his horse in and saluted. Anderson returned the gesture and smiled, "Reynold, what brings you down? Here to get your eye in?"

"I am a bit out of practice. Of course, should the Prussians roll into Dover they best beware, I'm a dab hand with a pen and a sheaf of paper these days."

Anderson chuckled, "Quite. As you can see, the gentlemen are doing well, we're upbraiding the stragglers and should have a decent review before the Sunday Mass. I trust that's what the Commandant's after?"

Reynolds shook his head, "Whilst that's a good thing, no. Got a telegram for you old chap, in the HQ. Sealed, Commandant wanted me to get you personally."

Anderson blinked, nonplussed, then took the telegram from the Adjutant. He read it quickly and frowned, then harrumphed, "Well, best get to the HQ. Mind if I use the telephone?"

In the HQ he found the telephone wired up in a private room. The operator connected him momentarily, her airy voice coming through with a faint crackle. The phone rang only once before a voice with a familiar American drawl answered, _"Major Anderson?"_

He sighed, "Captain Bradford. I did say I needed time to think. Harassing me is hardly going to make me more enamoured with your venture."

_"_ _Not that, sir. I mean, we heard about the escapade on the train."_

_How the devil did they hear about that? Hardly front page news._ "Oh? And what have you heard?"

_"_ _An altercation of sorts? Doesn't matter. I wanted to let you know - we got an update from one of the observatories here and my own people want me back in the US soon. We've got strange activity."_

Anderson massaged the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, then put the receiver to his ear again, "What, have they found mole people on the new Bakerloo excavation?

_"_ _No, But we've got activity on Mars."_

"Excuse me? I thought we went over that…"

_"_ _No, this is different. Eruptions. But not volcanic. They're regular. Scarily regular. Every two hours and thirty six minutes there's a green flare going off. They've only just noticed, but think it started a while back - no one was watching regular, like."_

"And you know this how?"

_"_ _Observatories just keeping a close eye, as this is the closest Mars has been for years in its orbit, apparently. Your man, uh, Ogilvy, was it? He's still thinking it's just seismic, but some people are getting antsy here. I just wanted to let you know."_

Anderson wasn't sure what to make of it, "Well, I appreciate the information. But I'm still fairly skeptical." _Of Martians at any rate. More than enough suspicious bizzarity down here._

_"_ _Not the only thing though. Had some reports in Paris of strange sightings in the catacombs; Berlin has scattered reports of child abduction; hell, New York Times is publishing a piece about animal mutilations."_

Anderson had that same sense of unease again, "Is this any different from the norm? Terrible of course, but is there a definite pattern?"

_"_ _Nothin' concrete. Vahlen and the teams she's been provided… well, they think it's something. I dunno."_

"Second thoughts, Captain?"

_"_ _Well, I'm in waitin' on a train to Liverpool. Getting a boat. Gotta report back into Fort Reynolds. But keeping my eyes open. Reckon you should too. Somethin's happening, Major. Good luck."_

The line went dead. Anderson replaced the earpiece on the rack and sat in one of the chairs in the room. His stomach churned for some reason, a terrible sense of foreboding. He couldn't tell if it was just anxiety or true portent, ridiculous as that sounded. He shook himself and stood, heading back out into the sunshine and back towards the range.

* * *

Bradford click the hook of the telephone to hang up, then waited. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Anderson - the man had clearly seen some weird things in his tours and seemed a fairly thoughtful man. But he couldn't understand the fellow's reticence. The Bradford line had long had an attitude of "Get in, get it done." Seeing someone of that level of bearing, well, dither was frustrating.

The operator crackled and spoke over the line, _"Operator, how can I connect you?"_

"Thank you ma'am, uh I'd like a connection to 901 17th Street NW, Washington DC."

_"_ _Hold please, connecting you."_

He wasn't quite used to this instant communication; telegrams were his pace - gave you time to think up a response and marshal your thoughts properly. Some would say "dodge things" but he preferred to be prepared. After only a moment a different voice came over the line, the voice thick with a Boston accent.

_"_ _Yeah? United Services Club."_

"I need to talk to the Director."

_"_ _And whom, pray, is calling?"_

"Captain J W Bradford."

_"_ _Let me fetch him."_

There was silence briefly and another voice came across the line, older sounding, but with the bass of authority, _"John. Glad to hear from you. What did you find out?"_

"Enough. These Exaltation guys actually seem on the level. Took the finding more seriously than our own boys."

_"_ _Not surprising. If it doesn't open an old wound, the brass are hard pushed to care."_

"London's a good place for info as well, sir. These guys are well connected. They're, uh, keen on forming ties as well."

_"_ _Interesting. They know you're connection to military intelligence?"_

"Well, they haven't said but with where we are and what they have reach on? Wouldn't be surprised if they knew."

_"_ _Interesting. And our little grey friend?"_

"Not as unique as we thought. Met a Brit officer, Anderson. He's seen them, more of them. Killed a few by his reckoning. So there's definite repeat occurrence."

_"_ _So, more opportunity to get samples, insights? But also more potential rivals?"_

"Exaltation said pretty much the same thing."

_"_ _Reality John. We're all friends now, but the world is a keg of powder. Gotta find advantages to ensure the Europeans don't start reminiscing about life over here."_

Bradford found that harder to countenance - the Brits were expansive and acquisitive, but for the most part they seemed to have gotten over the little divorce. He had no doubt there was some mad Minister with a plan. But they seemed fairly content to influence. Money spoke more than bullets to this nation. "So, what's your take on our involvement here?"

_"_ _We need someone on the ground. Seems Europe is where this Exaltation bunch are operating."_

"It's more interconnected, so that makes sense."

_"_ _Quite. I want you there for another couple of weeks. We may cycle in some support, let some more resources well, find their way to those shores."_

"So, a normal observation job?"

_"_ _Keep us informed of any findings. If it's locations, innovations, update as per dead drops and via the embassy. Keep it simple, though. Anything more, contact directly via telephone. We want to work with them, but if we can steal a march against the Imperial powers, we have to take it. That comes from the top, John."_

"Understood, sir."

_"_ _Good job. And good luck. I'll have Marco send across a dossier via facsimile tickertape."_

The line went dead and John stepped away from the booth. The telephone room was secluded with only another two phones in their own little rooms. The place was empty - not many people yet had regular call to use the telephony system; not at the current asking price. He stepped out, walked down the corridor and emerged into the station concourse at Euston. So, not getting the train to Liverpool. Not now. He stopped by baggage collection and had his cases dispatched back to his hotel, then he caught a hansom cab towards Islington and the club there he had decided would be his drinking destination for the evening. Lamplighters were going about their work in the street as dusk fell. The sky was lit orange by the various lights of the city, but the stars were visible. Bradford looked up at the sky and watched, lost in thought. The way the stars moved was hypnotic.

He blinked - stars didn't move, though, did they?

He watched as one star grew bigger. Then another. And another. With a green flash, three lines of light shrieked above the city and plummeted to the ground. Even above the hubbub Bradford heard the explosion of the impact - he thought of Artillery on the plains and the image of fountaining dirt filled his mind.

All around people were exchanging shocked glances. There were some screams, but they were hushed. The city was confused. Even the handsome had stopped. Bradford leaned around and shouted at his driver, "Quickly man, after those stars!"

"You what mate? I'm not…"

"A guinea for you if you make it in fifteen minutes."

Without a word, the man cracked the whip and the cab rocketed away over the cobbles.

They veered through streets and across junctions - the city seemed at a standstill, confused. Carts milled about, people spoke in concerned whispers. Clerks and labourers peered from office windows and construction sites. And high above the city, the trails left by the falling stars lingered, dissipating only slightly. They had an oily green tinge to them, like scars in the air.

They rattled through Clerkenwell and Fuinsbury, weaving through the meat-markets and closing warehouses of Fenchurch and Farringdon. The traffic here was thick with large wagons and construction. Bradford abandoned the cab on the Commercial Road, flicking a Guinea to the driver with a shouted thanks.

In the distance he could see fires blazing and heard the panicked cries of citizens. Up ahead he could see the source of the congestion - a barricade, hastily set up by several of the local constabulary. People were craning their necks to see, but clearly didn't want to get to close. Bradford pushed his way to the front where a policeman eyed him warily.

"What's going on?"

"And you are, sonny-jim?"

"Captain Bradford, attached to the... uh... 66th on an exchange," _Thank you for the Regimental note, Anderson,_ "Can I help?"

The man shrugged nervously, "No idea. Some explosion in the Chinese quarter. Fire spreading in Limehouse, so reports say. Got volunteers evacuating where we can, but can't get too far into Limehouse. Got a few soldier boys in the area, arrived quick-like."

"Huh, well, point me in their direction."

"Your funeral. Them Chinese sods are an ungrateful lot. Saw three blokes get dragged off by some queer looking fellows with glasses, dressed like they were off for a funeral. Clearly them Orientals have got no sense."

Bradford nodded, amazed at the ease with which they just let him through. It was only as he trudged in the direction of where the soldiers had apparently gone that he realised cordons were two way blockades - you kept people out. Or you kept things in.

And the area had been sealed pretty quickly - it'd taken half an hour at clip to get here, fighting through traffic. The local officers had done what they could, marshalling volunteers. He saw a few civilians run past, heading toward the cordon. One shouted something in broad cockney that he didn't understand. So he pushed on.

As he neared the fire he saw a group of unformed men huddling in an alley, pressed against the wall. One spotted him and placed a finger against his lips theatrically, then beckoned him over. Bradford recognised the man - a Sergeant in the colours worn by the Marter fellow; he'd met him after the meeting with Anderson.

"Captain sir, That Ms Vahlen said you'd probably be joining us."

"Yeah, you guys got here dang quick."

"Only just. Came up from the Tower, got a message from that Vahlen to reconnoiter."

"Any idea what it was? Rocks from the sky?"

"Have a butchers round that corner sir. Freaky is all I can say."

Bradford moved down the alley, past the soldiers hunkered down there.. He peered around the edge of the warehouse and frowned. Up ahead was one of the objects - a strange grey thing, metal, with pipes extruding from it. But what the strange thing was the bodies. A good fifty people in various frozen poses, covered in a strange green film. The air itself had a mist quality.

"Careful, Captain," came the sergeant's voice next to him."Watts stepped into that while it was winding down, got coated and froze."

The sergeant pointed at a half collapsed figure; the red of his jacket could just be seen under the green film.

"Dear god," breathed Bradford.

"No god I know, sir. We stopped here to observe. Think it's cleared. But have to say, by the time we arrived, I think most of the party was over."

"Are they alive?"

"Not sure."

Bradford nodded, then fished his revolver from its holster under his jacket, "Think we best push on, Sergeant. You with me?"

"Don't see why not. You're with the Colonel, but we don't do any of that weird American army bollocks?"

"And what 'bollocks' would that be?"

"Losin'" crowed one of the soldiers, earning him a half-hearted clip round the head from the sergeant.

"Lad has a point."

Bradford ignored that and gestured for the team of soldiers to follow. The troops fanned out, splitting to either side of the road and they approached the object. The air was thick with green mist and it made his skin feel strange - numb. He could feel his lips flicker and his breath was shallow. He didn't want to breathe in too much of the muck.

He idly wondered about what they'd have to do after this - get Moira down to get some samples. She'd like that. And she was fun to watch when she got enthused. They'd need to move the wounded… incapacitated? The civilians at any rate. And the device itself would need inspecting.

"Halt" came the strangled voice of a trooper. There was the crack of a rifle and all the soldiers swung in that direction, weapons raised. The Sergeant, growling, stormed over to one of the lead men and shoved his rifle down.

"What are you playing at? You just gave us away!"

The soldier pointed down the street, "Saw something there, hunched over a body. Saw it stick them with something… but it moved so fast."

The sergeant tsked and turned away, "No one fires unless I give the word, understand?"

Bradford felt the need to correct the man about chain of command, but paused - he was an interloper here. Instead he moved to the shooter and peered at him, "What did you see?"

"Looked like a bloke. But the sort of bloke you mam tells you stories about. The ones who come to steal your teeth, or take 'way your soul. And it looked right at me sir. Too fast. Too bloody fast."

Bradford patted the man on the shoulder and moved on. He paused to touch one of the fallen bodies and frowned again. The body was warm. He checked the neck, or where he thought the neck was under the strange green cover and found a weak pulse. So, they were alive. But surely they'd suffocate under that?

That was for Vahlen to work out. We need to get this place cleared and secured. Then we can get these poor bastards out of here.

"Alright boys, move on up. Use the cover, the carts. I see… a warehouse up ahead, looks unlocked, got some movement."

The sergeant peered down the street, "Good eyes sir. I can only see shadows."

"Yeah, it's faint, but you can see movement through the windows - something moving around in there."

The sergeant nodded and gestured for his men to move. Five darted forward. One had a large shotgun, practically a blunderbuss, another hefted what looked like a portable mortar. And two men carried… was that a Maxim gun? Bradford looked at the Sergeant slightly incredulously. The man grinned.

"We were told to, uh what was the command from on high? _Arm for bear_ , I think, sir. Well, I'd rather arm for levelling an entire street to keep us safe. Do you agree?"

"I concur most heartily, Sergeant. Let's hope it's unnecessary. Can your boys set up the Maxim with a view of the Warehouse entry?"

The sergeant gestured at the two gunners, "Delta section, get to it." They set to unfolding the tripod on the top of a wagon seat, giving it some elevation. To either side shops stood empty, their doors open and interiors dark. One of the mortar-men hefted his launcher and set up behind a dilapidated bench. An Omnibus stood to the left side of the wide street and the remainder of the soldiers moved to use it as cover. The warehouse had an alley next to it, but it looked clogged with detritus - discarded crates and rotting ropes. Bradford looked around and sniffed the air - the scent of tanneries was permeating the air, along with the smell of brine from the shipping. The buildings here were all industrial - even the shops seemed to be mere corner-stores, selling tobacco or utility supplies only. The scratchy chicken-scrawl (as he saw it) of Chinese writing adorned several buildings, with only cursory translations underneath.

But it was creepy how deserted it was.

One of the soldiers hissed something and beckoned to them. The Sergeant and Bradford advanced, leaving a pair of infantry to protect the flank of the Maxim team. They rounded the bus and drew up short. A constable was sprawled half on the bus. And he was a mess. His entrails left a horrible river of gore down the bus stairs onto the footplate.

"There's more, guv." said one of the soldiers. Two more passengers with similar wounds. But they were on top of a third who looked like he'd been bludgeoned to death instead, "These two 'ave got knuckles like fresh boxers."

Bradford looked at the cadavers, "What, you're saying they beat him to death and then… exploded?"

"Looks that way guv."

"And you know this how?"

"Butcher's boy, sir, before takin' the colours. Know what bruised meat's like. And seen a few rip carcasses pop in the heat. But this ain't like that - they got clawed at by somethin'"

Bradford looked around the street, "So falling stars and rogue damn tigers? No Zoo near here. Seen any stray dogs maybe? Could be… rabies?"

The men drew back a bit from the bodies and exchanged glances. The sergeant chuckled, "Don't spook my boys, sir. They'll never live it down if it gets out their all a bit squeamish. Now, enough lolly-gagging. Franks, Mitchell, up front, Roberts, Linklater, Paterson, Nicholson, follow on. Get to the door, enter by numbers. Don't shoot at shadows, use your dynamite if you see something untoward. Call out your sightings, alright? Sir, you hunker down upstairs on the bus, get a good view."

"Good suggestion, Sergeant. Have a couple of your boys stick here, we can provide another covering arc."

The sergeant nodded and peeled two more men to follow Bradford up. The stepped gingerly over the corpse of the constable and took up station on the upper level of the bus. The soldiers advanced and flanked the door. A couple took the knee directly in front and levelled their rifles. The Maxim clicked over by the wagon as the gunnery crew orientated to get a view through the doors, albeit at an angle. At their current position it'd likely just be suppression.

He watched as the lead soldier pushed the door open, a massive wooden thing. It creaked open. One by one the men darted through. All were riflemen, the mortar man sat next to Bradford, except for the lead chap with the blunderbuss. Bradford could hear the men calling out as they entered.

"Nothin'."

"Clear west side. Checking in further."

"Got half a bloody boat in here."

"Side door locked, no stairs I can see."

"Alright Derek, get yer eyes checked, found 'em."

Bradford pulled a small spyglass from his coat pocket and peered through it. He could see directly into the warehouse but only the arc through the main double doors. The large windows alongside were grimy but gave him some mediocre views. He could see the men checking boxes and heading for the stairs.

"Wait! Got someone! Back of the room!"

Bradford screwed the spyglass and could make out another figure, at the back of the warhouse, half concealed by a crate. He seemed to be just… standing there.

"Some bloody Chinaman. Oy, you… You _commie outtie toot fuckin_ ' sweet mate."

"Probably scared shitless, the gutless job stealing bastard," grumbled one of the soldiers.

The sergeant moved in front of the door and waved out at Bradford, "Want us to bring him out, sir?"

"Yeah," called Bradford, "Clear the area. Think it's dead round here. Just that weird cylinder. Maybe he saw something?"

The sergeant nodded and Bradford stood to head down, "You two, stay here, keep things covered."

"Aye boss." said one of the men. Bradford descended, once more dodging the corpses, and began to walk towards the warehouse.

He saw the sergeant turn, heard someone inside say something, sounded like " _wha'sat in his hand_?"

"You alright mate? You look a pit peaky! Hah, geddit?" barked one of the soldiers from inside.

"Shut up Rob," the other soldier. Bradford heard this one address the unseen person inside the warehouse, "Oi, mate, move it… you got someone back there wi- oh shit! BOMB!"

Bradford was at the door, he saw past the Sergeant, saw the man in the shadow, saw something else behind him.

And he saw the Chinaman raise the thing in his hand - a clay sphere which was fizzing. The sergeant had glanced back and swore, then shoved Bradford to the ground. There was a muffled BOOM followed by shrieks and cries of pain. The blast pepped the air with wood splinters and grit. Bradford hit the ground, winded, the Sergeant on top of him. The bigger man rolled off, groaning. Bradford sat up and cough, then checked the man.

"Only bruises, come on. Roll call! Sound off!"

"Franks here… Roberts has bought it, Linklater's out cold."

"Paterson here. Alright, but got some shrapnel in me arm, proper."

"Nicholson… What the fuck was that?"

Bradford was about to speak when a cry came from outside. He turned and saw the two men he'd left behind pointing down the street. Then something green streaked through the air and hit the mortar-man. Straight in his ammo pouch.

The top of the omnibus bloomed in a fireball, drowning the screams of the men out. Instantly, the Maxim opened up, the "chunk chunk chunk" of .303 rounds being spat down the street echoing off the buildings. Bradford heard something squeal - it sounded like a pig, or a cat. But not human.

Another shriek, this time from inside the warehouse. Bradford ducked back inside and saw something scuttle from the shadows. Nearby Nicholson was clutching his head, rifle forgotten at his feet. There was a crack as Franks fired a round at the thing in the shadows. Bradford got an impression of…

A grey, bulbous head, dead eyes. Thin limbs.

"It's them!" he whipped his revolver up and cracked a shot off, Franks scrambling to reload. The sergeant next to Bradford hunkered down and brought his weapon up, then fired. The rifle retort echoed in the warehouse and was followed by another inhuman shriek.

"Bovingdon marksman champion three years running," muttered the sergeant with satisfaction.

Paterson levelled his blunderbuss and blasted at a crate, which splintered. Then another flash of green sliced through the air and he went down with a gurgling hiss. Another green bolt, then another. The men swore and dove for cover.

"They're flanking us, the bas-" that was Franks, his voice edged with panic. It was cut off as a small grey horror scuttled around the stack of crates and caught him in the chest with a blast from something on its wrist. The man went down, his eyes glassy and dead.

Bradford ducked down as a bolt fizzed over head, bursting against the brick wall beyond. He stared as the masonry bubbled and melted, running in red down the rest of the wall. Something loomed next to him - Nicholson.

"Get down man, you…" Bradford saw the man's eyes - they were glowing, "What in the hells?"

Nicholson raised his rifle - it swayed as if the man was unsure how it worked all of a sudden. Then the sergeant was there. He was up and tackling the dazed soldier to the ground. There was a thud as he planted a beefy fist into the soldiers jaw and Bradford saw Nicholson go limp. The sergeant turned and scanned the warehouse floor, then ejected the round from his rifle, slotting a new cartridge into place in a smooth movement. His rifle came up and there was another crack followed by an answering squeal.

Bradford leaned round a crate and fired off another round, which he saw wing one of the little devils. The thing hissed and limped to cover - that was clear then: not just animals.

The sergeant grunted and fired again, "Where are they coming from?"

Bradford shook his head, "No clue how many there are… wait, what's that?"

He saw it on the upper levels - it looked like the grey things but… bigger? It had darker skin and its head was ridged. It was squatting on the gantry above just… watching? He growled and raised his pistol, then squeezed off several shots, gratified when he saw the thing recoil and back away. His shots had gone wide but the thing clearly wasn't used to their weapons.

"Sergeant, gantry - think that's their CO. Can you take it?"

"Got the bugger," He sighted and fired then swore, "Thing's bloody fast, where'd it go?"

The man ducked as another wave of green was unleashed from the shadows. Bradford swore as he saw more shapes scuttling in - coming in through the grates in the floor and the vents at the back.

"Shit, they're going for a charge."

"Well, I'd say it's been an honour sir, but I hardly know you."

"Likewise. Let's die well at least."

"I'll drink to that. Come on you midget bastards, come and get us!"

With a howl the first of what had been termed _Insectoids_ launched itself over the barrier. It loped over creates, closing in. And then there was a chunk chunk chunk and its chest exploded in a shower of yellow. Bradford spun and stared.

The gunnery crew were at the door - the maxim born on some sort of small cart - a rickshaw? One soldier pushed it, with the help of several civilians, whilst his comrade squatted on the small cart and cranked the gun. They spun the weapon from side to side, sending splinters flying as crates were shredded and monsters gutted by the hail of lead. A pair of Chinamen, their faces covered with scarves ran forward and lobbed a couple of spheres - similar to the one that the stranger had been holding. They burst over head spreading a white substance down onto the remaining monsters, which shrieked and sizzled.

The Maxim ceased firing as the gunners reloaded, whilst the two troopers who'd been with them stepped forward and hauled Bradford and the sergeant to their feet, pulling them back. The Chinamen were tossing more explosives in, just to be sure. Bradford grabbed one, "Hey, we need some of them intact!"

The man glared at him but just shrugged. His colleague tossed a few more of the strange smoke bombs and they all pulled away from the warehouse door.

Outside, Bradford realised they'd only seen half the battle. One end of the street was strewn with corpses - some human as well. They looked bloated though, which was strange. A few more of those grey monsters. There were also a few more Chinese fellows hanging around - men and women, which he found very unsettling. One of them stepped forward - he was old, balding and wore a neat set of wire spectacles.

"I trust you are unharmed, Mr…?"

"Uh Bradford, Captain Bradford."

"An American? We are both strangers in a strange land, Captain. Your men here, they made a good showing of that lot. They move fast, these devils."

"Thank you for the assistance. What happened out here?"

"My family, we were not able to flee when those things landed. Humble sailors and craftsmen only. We made a stand nearby but clearly your presence drew these beasts. I am a man who does not turn his back on people in need. Our common humanity demanded I lend assistance. We merely… alleviate the pressure, I am sorry we were unable to save all your men."

Bradford eyed the man. He wore a simple green tunic, in the Chinese style. But he had a long rifle slung across his back. Several of the other Chinese cohort had various seaman weapons - billhooks, the odd pistol, mostly antiques really. He half turned and saw a few of the Chinese hauling the unconscious forms of Linklater and Nicholson out. They'd have to go back in for the dead shortly.

"Locals I take it?"

"Yes, Captain. There are many what the British call flop houses here abouts where we are expected to stay out of the way, when we aren't working. Unfortunately, whilst they are easy to barricade, they are easy to be barricaded in."

"Bradford eyed the rifle then gestured at the bomblets on the Chinese bandoleers, "And yet you seem prepared."

The old man smiled, "One must be prepared for all eventualities in the big city, Captain."

"Ingenious devices, though. I didn't catch your name?"

The man smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

"Shen, Captain. A pleasure to meet you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bradford debriefs Colonel Marter.
> 
> The Invasion Begins.
> 
> Mr Wells and Mr Ogilvy converse.
> 
> And the monsters reveal themselves.

An hour. So much could happen in an hour. Stock prices in New York could tank; word of a Cholera outbreak in the Empire could disseminate; riots could unfold and engulf an entire province.

But finding a decent coffee near the Tower of London? Apparently impossible.

Shen and his impromptu militia had helped them to the cordon edge, by which point a whole Company of Grenadiers and Police had been marshalled to fully sweep and secure the district. Several stevedores and labourers were sent in with cart horses and reinforced wagons to retrieve whatever they could from the impact sites; a nearby hospital was cleared and emptied, turned into a recovery and investigation centre.

All done in an hour - Vahlen and the Council had been busy. But still, no damn coffe.

Now Bradford found himself slumped in a chair in the small Mess within the walls of the Tower. He was sat with the Colonel, the one from the meeting. The one that Anderson knew, Marter. The senior officer sat nursing a brandy, his thick moustache twitching, contemplating the debrief. The Sergeant from the raid stood nearby, clearly not comfortable in an Officer's Mess. The Colonel glanced at him.

"So, Sergeant Hackett, you corroborate this?"

"Yessir. Clear evidence of tactical nuance, sir."

"Hmm, troubling. You both comported yourself well. I must inform you that we have had telegrams from our… associates overseas. There are reports in France, North America, potentially elsewhere. This seems to be, to put it bluntly, a global phenomenon."

The door from the courtyard opened and Doctor Vahlen stepped in. She brushed the dampness from the rapidly descending mist from her shawl and nodded at the men.

"Colonel.. The specimens are all accounted for. We have requisitioned London Bridge Hospital. It has a suitable Morgue. However, the incapacitated… they are, how you say, unresponsive. I think we will need more suitable, large scale housing. The recovery teams and civilian volunteers are finding more and more as they explore."

The Colonel harrumphed then fished a pocket watch from his uniform pocket, "Dammit, the Minister sent a runner asking for an update. Any other reports of hostilities?"

" _Nein_. I think their main thrust was blunted by the good Captain and Sergeant."

Bradford hung his head and breathed heavily. His hand was trembling, "Too many boys bought it. If it wasn't for Shen and the Delta gunners...."

"Enough of that, sir. Men die. It's the other side of the coin," the Sergeant's voice was gentle, but had a gruff edge, "And at least they died on English soil. Not some barren plain to be picked over by crows."

"Yeah. Yeah."

The Colonel peered at him, "Bit shaken old boy?"

Bradford sat up stiffly and downed his brandy, forcing himself to appear calm. He could see Vahlen watching him, hawklike. Or was she just curious? "I'll be fine, sir. Guess I need to stick around?"

"Unlikely we can guarantee safe passage. If you're willing to stay? We do still need a commander to co-ordinate this."

"Anderson?"

The Colonel sighed, "He's faffing. Which is a shame - I don't need faffers."

"Best will sir, if he'd seen something like this evening in his past, can't says as I blame him. I can tackle men. But these things…"

"Total bloody war. Battles in villages and urban centres, but these things dropped right into our back garden. Dropped. They're bloody willing to go for civvies," grumbled the Sergeant.

The Colonel tipped his head to one side and sighed, eyeing Bradford, "Not up to it?"

"I can give it a shot, sir, but this may require more than just a local response. We need to know more about what we're dealing with. Intelligence, sir. I can co-ordinate that, but I'll need more."

Marter nodded, "Actionable intelligence. Doctor, I trust you will be able to provide something akin to analysis of our occult friends?"

She grimaced, "Hardly occult, Herr Marter, but they are certainly strange. If this is their master plan, I cannot see it being any more than a minor distraction. The Imperial powers would surely win any long-standing engagement, even with these beings and their superior weaponry. I believe that was illustrated succinctly today."

"Hmm, mayhap. Also, this Shen fellow. I have it on good authority from associates in the Home Office that he is a known individual of interest."

Bradford leaned forwards, "Oh? An anarchist?"

"Hardly. Our Chinese contemporaries don't share much with us - still a tad upset over the whole opium affair - but it would appear that your man Shen was being honest about his seniority. If a little opaque. We believe he is what is referred to as a '438'. He's fairly high ranking in one of their secret societies. Well, not so secret."

"So, they're criminals?"

The Colonel shrugged, "In a sense. London has always tolerated a certain level of activity as long as it doesn't impact the wider operational integrity of the Empire. Why waste Metropolitan resources chasing minor opium smuggling. I find it all a bit… political for my liking. However, I read up on him on my way over, what scant little there is. He appears to oversee the induction of new Chinese seeking to permanently settle in Limehouse. So, we seem to regard him as a minor extension of the Chinese delegation from their embassy."

Bradford massaged his temples, "Ok, well, he was useful. Handy."

"Perhaps a useful face to know. Anyway, if you will excuse me, I am expected in Westminster - debriefing. Thank you for your accounts. I will leave the minutiae to you."

Marter stood and left, leaving the three in an awkward silence. Bradford leaned back, "Let's hope it doesn't get any worse."

And the window glass exploded inwards.

* * *

It was an evening like any other - a fire crackled in the hearth; trains shunted in the yard, softened almost to melody by the distance. Anderson sat and stared at the flames.

He was restless. His mind racing. Ever since Afghanistan, since Africa, since the various tours, he had felt listless. This place had been a sort of consolation prize. And he'd grown into it, like a snail in its shell. He had been angry when he'd first arrived, thinking himself a discarded tool. But he'd made the best of it, taken what joy he could.

His future was a bleak one; unmarried and in his middle forties. His family a minor mercantile success with aspirations for higher office. And he a rebellious fool who yearned for heroism on foreign fields.

And all that was knocked out of him now. Wasn't it? Why, ten years ago he would've leapt at the chance to be an explorer into the extraordinary. Before he realised the unknown sometimes had teeth. And that man was a monster in his various guises of gentility. He stood and went to the window, trying to shift the melancholy thoughts. Around him fellow officers dozed in chairs or read the papers - most had retired for the evening. He looked out into the dusky sky, turned red by the setting sun. Spring and yet darkness lingered.

Something caught his eye. Something moving fast over the horizon. Several somethings.

He saw a green light growing larger, dipping down. It vanished behind the trees at the edge of the Mess gardens, clearly miles away. But the distance didn't prevent the thunderous shockwave that rattled the windows or the echoing boom. Around him men jumped to their feet, exchanging confused looks

Anderson took charge immediately, "Phillip, to the guard room, check the sentries! Richard, rouse the Commandant, the Adjutant. Something's bloody happened. Anarchists, gas explosion, who knows. We may be needed. Johnson, get to the Sergeants mess, get them out and rousing the boys."

They all stared at him, "Um, excuse…"

"Get to it, or I'll have you all up on charges, now shift."

The Officers, all students of the Royal Military College, had a frankly psychological response to a certain tone. It shivered up their spine and kicked something in the mind that said "YES!". And Anderson had perfected that tone over the years. He smiled thinly as the younger officers scattered and the seniors nodded with approval. One, a fellow Major with an outrageous moustache chuckled, "Right William. And what can we do?"

Anderson blinked and nodded slowly, slightly surprised, "Well, get to the Regimental HQs. If it's nothing, then I'll happily parade and get the tomatoes chucked at me. But it's best to be prepared. Matherson, yes? Munitions corp?"

"The very same sir."

"Right, can you see if we can organise transportation? Requisition a train? I think we need somebody up there soon."

"And where is 'there'?"

Anderson glanced back out the window, watching as more green streaks lit up the sky and did a quick mental orientation.

"Woking."

* * *

Bradford stumbled out of the mess and saw Marter crouched outside, staring at the sky. People were screaming and soldiers were dashing around the courtyard. Above, green trails lit up the air, one trail much larger than the rest. He looked at Marter who stood unsteadily.

"Bloody hell." breathed the Colonel. Bradford found himself likewise at a loss. Vahlen stepped out and frowned.

"I trust this is a defensible position? Being, a schlosse ja?"

Marter nodded and gestured to Bradford, "Get to it. I need to get to Westminster. Seems like these things are hitting the outskirts, if my eye's still any good. We'll need it co-ordinating. Sergeant, assist Bradford and Ms Vahlen."

"Yes SAH!" barked Hackett. Bradford turned and looked around.

"First thing… let's get this place secured. Then let's find out what the hell's going on. Moira, I need you back at that hospital, but you'll need security. Sergeant, she'll need a detail."

The man nodded and headed off to wrangle some men. Vahlen and Bradford headed past the looming keep at the centre of the Tower and headed for the Western gate.

"Across Tower Bridge, then down the embankment. Need to split the forces to keep the location secure."

She nodded at him, "Ja, but we do not know their intent."

"That's why we need you. See what you can get from them."

"They're dead, John. I am afraid I am no occult diviner.."

"But if you can find something out about their technology, their diet, maybe. Anything to give us a clue."

"Can I assist?" They turned and saw Shen stood behind them. He was hunched slightly, his arms clasped behind him, "I am known to dabble in mechanical engineering. Chemical too. I may be of some use."

Bradford gave a lopsided smile, "Our, uh, military friends surely have their own…"

Vahlen gave him a sideways glance, "Ja but are they here now? Mr Shen here has local knowledge and people."

"Mighty convenient."

Shen's smile was a lightly stiff, "Yes. So convenient that I lost my brother this evening. And my people lost their loved ones."

Bradford swallowed, "Ah, I'm sorry."

The man waved a hand dismissively, "I understand scepticism, Captain. Truly, this night has put many assumptions to the winds and made many more suspect. I am a longshoreman by trade, a chemist and mechanical engineer by passion. If I can help, let me know."

Bradford nodded, "Alright. Can't exactly keep you outta this after what you've seen. Go with Doctor Vahlen - we've got everything set up at London Bridge. Your people ok?"

"I will bring them with me. I have several apprentices among their number. And I think we're making the soldiers upset."

Bradford quirked an eyebrow, "Oh?"

Shen shrugged, "We aren't prisoners, but they're watching us. We aren't in a stockade and they've given us food, but they know they're supposed to be guarding us. To protect us or something else, they do not know. In my experience, British soldiers are very pragmatic - you tell them to do something and they do it. Nuance… is difficult."

Bradford chuckled, "Yeah, sounds British. Ok, get them together. Ah, Hackett, got your detail? Shen and his people will be joining them."

The Sergeant had approached the gate, ten men in tow. The Maxim gunnery team were there too, which they seemed very protective of, "Yes sir. Ready to go, Got some carts too, so they're not bimbling."

Bradford watched as the impromptu convoy left via the gate. Men were already scrambling around the castle, dishing out weaponry, setting up sandbags beyond the main gates and otherwise securing whichever little side gates, doors or crannies were accessible. Bradford turned to Hackett.

"Let's get started."

* * *

An hour. So much can happen in an hour. Lives made, lives broken. Trains delayed. Troops marshalled.

It only took twenty minutes following the impact for the first people to arrive at the site - townsfolk and villagers, workmen and police. They stared, dumbfounded at the massive object - a huge cylinder - and the crater it had created. The crowd had even pulled notable men, such as Professor Ogilvy of the Woking Observatory and noted member of The Royal Society.

Ogilvy stood, staring into the pit at the massive object. There were sounds from the cylinder - as if someone were moving about inside. He'd tried approaching with a gang of workers, but it gave off so much heat he'd been forced back.

He turned as a man approached. The gentleman was tall, with a top hat and smoky glasses. He appeared to have some sort of strange birthmark down his neck. The figure was transfixed by the cylinder.

"Fascinating isn't it? I wish I could get closer."

The figure glanced at him and offered a thin smile, "Soon, yes, we are sure."

"Wonder what it is."

The thin man unfolded his hands in an almost supplicant gesture towards the cylinder, "The future."

Ogilvy nodded absently. Another pair of gentlemen, clad similarly had joined the first. Perhaps undertakers? "Anyone hurt by the impact? You seem… expectant."

The three looked at him at the same time and he had a distinct sensation of being dissected visually. The lead man gave a half shrug, "This, yes. A long expected occurrence. You have writings about such things."

Ogilvy snorted, "Ah, you must mean those pulp novellas. Old Dickensian, Christmas Carol malarky. Or Conan-Doyle's forays. Hell, my old school chum Wells, he's still dabbling. Probably around here somewhere, writing this up for one of his papers. Though those editors, philistines, they'll probably relegate it to near the weather."

The trio turned their attention back to the cylinder and stared. Ogilvy fidgeted and fished a notebook from his pocket, then began making sketches. When he looked back up the three men were gone. Around him, people were gawking, walking too and fro, entranced by the slow, deliberate movements of the strange object.

"Ah Ogilvy! There you are. Carrie and I … well, this is one for the books eh?"

A man jogged over - he was in his late thirties, brown hair receding and a neatly trimmed moustache. In has wake came a younger woman, her dark hair straight and pushed back over her shoulders. She seemed nervous, staring up at the strange cylinder with fear in her eyes. She gripped at the man's arm, "George. This is… it feels dangerous."

He patted her hand, "It's done nothing. And you, there Ogilvy, thought you said nothing'd come from Mars."

"Yes, strange isn't it? Possibly some sort of volcanic ejection? But it looks… smooth. Almost machined."

Carrie sighed, "It's very unsettling. Where are the police? The Army?"

"Mobilising most likely. Can't imagine that lot can even envisage something like this happening. Got to get their heads round it first," joshed George. He smiled at her and nodded, "But I can see you're unsettled, darling. Let's get you home. I can pop back in the morning. Doubt anyone'll be able to steal it, what?"

Ogilvy chuckled, "Well, I tried… too bally hot. Mrs Wells, lovely to see you again. I apologise for not writing - the food on Wednesday was simply divine."

She smiled at him, "Well, Charles, it is a pleasure. You are always welcome."

George shook Ogilvy's hand, "Don't stay too late old boy. Let's catch up in the morrow. I've got something in mind for the first article. Next one, will need a few choice quotes from the man who saw it coming!"

They made their farewells an Ogilvy turned back to the massive object.

"A million to one… well, the dice do roll a certain way sometimes."

Ogilvy was still there several hours later. He'd had a man fetch him a travelling stool and had camped up with several other eager watchers - they'd got a campfire going and had brewed tea. Some of the women from the village nearby had brought cold meat and beer and they'd formed an impromptu little gathering, discussing what this strange visitor could mean.

The police had arrived and set up what barely counted as a cordon - a scant handful of bobbies walking a perimeter a few hundred metres from the object, trying to stop errant children or gawkers getting too close. It was a common, though, which meant wide open space. And no one had that many wooden barricades to hand, especially not the local Woking constabulary. They were equipped for the odd drunken reveller or perhaps a disgruntled farmer.

But falling stars and gathered crowds?

A few runners from Aldershot had arrived - a pair of officers and a small cart-load of soldiers, but they were mainly standing off on the far side of the object, near a wood block of trees. What ten men with muskets would do he had no idea and had an inkling that the military men were facing similar thoughts - they couldn't precisely shoot it and they couldn't move it.

So, all sat there, at an impasse.

George had arrived at six, bearing a gift of bacon and bread, as well as a few boiled eggs. He shared them with the little group and then spent the next half hour interrogating him over what it could possibly be - Ogilvy found it faintly amusing but he had to admit he was as in the dark as George, only able to offer blind suggestions.

It was at seven that it all, as some in the village would have said, "kicked off". The cylinder shift in its crater and the top began to move. There was a hiss of steam and green gas, then the top began to unscrew. Several smaller portholes, previously invisible also hissed and extended, belching gas.

A few moments and the top unscrewed, revealing two feet of shining steel. And then it slid to one side and thudded to the ground.

Something rose from within the cylinder. A pair of small, strange, floating objects with four manipulators rose alongside it. The thing sat atop a strange bowl which floated free of supports of any kind. It looked incomplete, though. The thing atop the hovering bowl had a pair of disc-like eyes and a lip-less mouth that quivered and slathered. It was a misshapen creature, more brain than actual beast. Grey pink colour, its skin glistened like wet leather in the morning light. Snake-like tentacles writhed as it gripped the edge of the cylinder and hauled itself out. The hovering chair-thing seemed ill-suited to the terrestrial atmosphere, barely able to support it and the thing tumbled off the side of the cylinder. It gave a warbling cry, which elicited titters among the stunned crowd. They seemed shocked, but only shocked currently.

A second being hauled itself out and surveyed the crowd with a gurgle. One man slipped and fell into the pit, sliding down the loose earth.

With a speed unnatural, the beast whipped a tentacle out and dragged the man towards it. The sudden movement jolted a primeval instinct in the onlookers and the crowd pulled back, away from the pit. But no one seemed to be able to tear themselves away. A pair of men jumped down, ready to help the poor fellow who was being pulled towards the strange beast atop the cylinder, when a funnel rose from the interior of the cylinder, topped with a strange dome. There was a flash of green smoke and the two men erupted into flame, their screams drowned by sudden panicked screams of the onlookers. People ran, blindly. The dome fizzled and flashed, spurting more green smoke and several more people burst into flame, as if an invisible beam had jumped between them.

Ogilvy cried out and felt himself yanked backwards, beyond the lip of the crater. George was hauling him along, dragging him away towards a copse of trees. There was the sound of gunfire suddenly, the soldiers clearly spurred to action, but it was sporadic. An inhuman shriek came from the pit, the sound of flesh rippling from impacts and the strange heat ray shot forth. There was a crackle like fireworks, the sound of ammunition cooking in its pouch, mingled with the screams of dying men.

The astronomer glanced back and saw a man stumbling, clad in the bright crimson of the British Army. He was soot stained but seemed to have escaped the heat ray. As he watched, one of the strange, small, four-armed aero-automata crested the crater and zoomed in on the man. The four arms clamped around him and there was the flash of discharging electricity. The soldier went limp and then, to Ogilvy's astonishment, the thing lifted the fellow and carried him through the air, back into the crater.

George and Ogilvy collapsed into the undergrowth and peered back. They watched as others escaped, vanishing into woodland or beyond the range of the heat ray. Corpses smouldered on the common. As they watched, one of the monsters floated up, buoyed by its ethereal litter. Some smaller creatures, hunched and with bulbous heads, skittered over lip of the crater and began hauling a few bodies back. The bulky monster, meanwhile, waved its tentacles. A purple mist suffused the air about it and suddenly burst.

George stared, slack jawed and Ogilvy had to suppress a whimper as several of the dead stood back up. The men and women then walked over the edge of the crater and vanished from view. The floating thing rotated, as if surveying the landscape. The pair of men held their breath as their little sanctuary was focused on. The monster seemed to regard them for a long moment. Then several floating pieces of white material hovered up and surrounded it, encasing it in a gleaming white sphere. The thing dropped out of sight, a single, eye-like view-port trained on them until it vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote some of this as I realise I must have posted an unedited version to FF.net - some TERRIBLE grammatical errors!
> 
> Need to go back and edit it, CLEARLY. The perils of writing at 3 am last year, then posting without thinking...
> 
> Anyway, YES! Mr HG Wells is a character. You might also note another WOTW media piece is influencing things!
> 
> Also, guesses as to what that thing at the end was!!! :D
> 
> Yeah XCOM is coming to the fore,...
> 
> As ever, comments, kudos, feedback ALWAYS appreciated


	8. Across Field and Vale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The foe is met in this green and pleasant land.
> 
> Major Anderson enters the melee.
> 
> Bradford and Vahlen discuss the reality of the Sectoid situation
> 
> Envious Eyes across the gulf of space prepare to deploy their next weapon.

Many said that the Empire was a staid thing, a rotting beast, slow to react even as threats struck its flanks and tore the boots from its leaden feet. Most of the people who said that tended to be the ones upon whom said boot was treading. The reality was that, despite the pomp, ceremony and rigid attitude, when the institutions of Britain decided to do something they tended to do it with a grinding determination that crushed anything before it.

Anderson stood amidst a bustle of activity. Young Subalterns dashed to and fro, marshalling sergeants and equipment, watched by Quartermasters who gazed over the hubbub like mother hens watched squabbling chicks. The main parade square of the camp was full of soldiers being formed into ranks and prepared; stacks of rifles were being issued out, rounds counted and shuffled into pouches and large wagon trains prepared for departure. He was quietly impressed and not a little proud. A small detachment had been sent ahead at Midnight so would likely be there first thing; a larger contingent had already left to commandeer a train and cargo-carriages. Artillery material was being hauled from armouries and hitched to horses, ready to begin the march. The whole camp wasn't being mobilised - one Division was being sent, consisting of two infantry regiments, a light cavalry squadron and five batteries of artillery.

A dramatic telegram from London had spurred things on - confusion seemed to be reigning back in the Ministry, as something had gotten Westminster spooked. Also, there were unconfirmed reports from Liverpool, Manchester and even Edinburgh. However, local regiments were being tasked with handling that, along with any militia that could be pulled together.

Anderson had been able to step back once the senior brass had been roused - the various senior colonels were taking charge of their particular units, whilst a Brigadier, Chumley-Smythe, was heading in overall command. However, the man had practically demanded him along as, essentially, an equerry and advisor. He watched for a moment longer then withdrew to the headquarters building. There he allowed himself a moment to breath and refresh. The place was lit by gas-lamps and candles in the dim early morning light. Reynold, the Adjutant, offered him a cup of coffee, which he gladly accepted.

"Ready, William?"

"Just about. Any further information from Woking?"

"Something, well, bloody well landed but there's bugger all happening. Real news is London. Household Divisions and the Yeomanry on fighting in the streets. Can't tell if its rioting or something else. Orders here are for the majority of the Garrison to be put on alert and for elements to deploy to the outer boroughs to respond."

Anderson sighed, "And do what? Wait until the locals get ratty about our lot nicking the beer?"

Reynold chuckled, "Happened in Dover against Bonaparte, didn't it? Lots of grumpy farmers after the regiments went a-foraging."

Anderson nodded and sipped his coffee, "So, cordon the bally thing off and then what?"

The adjutant shrugged, "Bit flummoxed myself, wait for any further orders I suppose. I'm getting the odd telegram through on the telegram printer. Seems most think it's panic after some cunning anarchist bombs but… well, that chap you mentioned, Bradford? Seems he's co-ordinating something in the Tower."

Anderson nodded then excused himself. He made his way to the telephone room and paused, chewing his lip. He could feel something, a nagging fear in his stomach. But it faded as his mind resolved to action and he picked up the receiver. He managed to get a prompt connection - phone services still seemed to be operating, though he wondered if that wasn't down to military edicts. There was a clunk and a hum and then a voice asking for his name. He identified himself and there was a pause before an American twang came over the line.

" _Anderson, sir. Bit busy right now, old fellah."_

"I'm sure. Just thought you may want to factor that we've got something outside the city as well."

_"_ _Well, if it's like these little things that dropped all over, they're more a nuisance to dig out. Sure you boys can roll over it."_

Anderson chuckled; he could hear the frustration, "Well, from what we've heard it's a good job it didn't land in London. Hundred meter crater or something."

There was silence, _"You're shitting me."_

Anderson blinked at the abrupt retort, "I am not, as your colloquialism would have it, defecating you. However, I think I may have been forced to re-evaluate my former… reluctance. When one is faced with the harsh reality of the world, one re-evaluates."

The American grunted, clearly distracted, " _Uh, sorry Bill, what are you saying?"_

"I'm sure you have it all locked down and coordinated. But, given what appears to have flared up, I would like to connect and share intelligence with your benefactors. Time willing."

_"_ _Well, I'm sure once we deal with this… then yeah, a conversation'd be good. I'm not in a position to agree, but I'll raise it with the Colonel. He headed to Westminster but we've heard nothing since."_

"Understood. I won't query your strategy over the telephone, but we will do our best to keep you appraised of what is happening out here. If it's more of the same, I'm sure it'll be of little comfort. But you never know."

_"Thanks Major."_

"Now, I'm sure you have a war to win. Once I have assessed Woking I will contact you. Likely via telegram to the Ministry."

_"_ _Excellent. If we can get a line sorted we can, hopefully, keep you updated if it all goes up the creek here."_

Anderson laughed, said his farewells and hung up. Then, with a strange spring in his step, he returned to the fray.

* * *

The journey to Woking took 3 hours at forced march pace. Anderson rode at the front with the Brigadier, along with a small contingent of command staff. Wagons and troops formed the remainder of the column. It was near midday when they arrived at Horsell Common and established a main camp a good half mile from the impact site. The infantry were divvied up and dispatched with various engineering sapper teams to erect cordons and patrols around a perimeter - this had been hastily mapped out between the officers prior to departure, so was a mere stop gap.

The artillery moved to a small hill with a fairly decent overlook of the common; a second battery had detached further back and formed a rear-guard line. Anderson had insisted on this, much to the confusion of even the Artillery officers - "Overwatch, gentlemen, in case of breakthrough. We don't know what we are dealing with and it would be unwise to commit all to the front."

The Brigadier had concurred and that was that.

Anderson took a pair of the cavalry soldiers with him and decided to reconnoitre the perimeter, to ensure patrols were established, linked up and not isolated. He felt on edge, but excited, his sword bouncing against his thigh as he rode his horse down chalk paths between the major checkpoints. His pistol provided a reassuring weight against his other hip and he scanned the horizon towards the strange crater with interest.

From here he could make out strange smoke rising from within and noted a distinct lack of any civilians near the hole.

The first checkpoint was being established, the infantry looking bored and grumpy, as any soldier roused before normal reveille would be. They reported nothing untoward and no civilians. The second checkpoint stated likewise. The third gave Anderson a view of the wider common, not obscured by tree block; and also received the report that the initial detachment of men were absent, condition unknown. He could spy a smouldering patch of earth and checked using his spyglass, but saw no bodies.

He continued the patrol, passing infantry marching between each set point, but saw no locals. The village off in the distance seemed inhabited; smoke rose from chimneys…

No, it rose from houses.

He spurred his horse back to the camp and sounded the alarm. Men leapt onto horses and thundered across fields to do a check of the perimeter. Anderson wheeled his horse about as another officer emerged from the command tent.

"What the devil, Anderson? Perimeter clear?"

"Too clear. No civilians. And it looks like the village is burning."

"Dear God. What the hell's happened?"

Anderson spurred his horse to a gallop and vaulted a set of hedgerows, following the cavalry. He watched as a company of infantry hurried through recently-ploughed fields, advancing on the hamlet.

A flash of green slammed into one man who went down hard, with a gurgle. The Major growled deep in his throat and reigned in his horse, watching as the cavalry ahead scattered under a hail of green fire.

_They were here?_

He turned his horse and bellowed commands, "Company, form up, advance steady, fifty paces! Spread out, identify your man! Do not, I repeat, do not be fooled!"

The shots coming from the village were haphazard, as if fired by people moving and ducking; barely aimed. One or two struck home, sending a man sprawling. Fifty paces ahead Anderson called a halt and set the men to ranks.

"Company! 1… 2… 3… 4… Front rank, _PRESENT_."

There was the echoing bark of rifle fire as twenty five muskets spat lead towards the cluster of white washed houses. Plaster dust and brickwork sprayed. There was a squeal as something went down in a garden, scuttling between cover.

"Front rank, 1,2,3, Rear Rank _Present!_ "

Another bark of fire, another squeal. A few shots of green flew out and caught a man in the chest. He went down with a choking cry. The men to his side barely flinched, eyes locked ahead as they went through the motions of ejecting their rounds and reloading.

The Company fired again, then the rear rank stepped forward, took aim and blasted. The next rank did the same, then the next. Slowly, they ground forward, a steady hail of lead keeping whoever they were fighting suppressed. Anderson rode behind the line, keeping a steady stream of orders going, keeping the men focused on the rhythm of firing, reloading, firing. Keeping their minds set on not what they were shooting at, just the act of shooting itself. His movement also seemed to be attracting the fire, so he kept moving, which in turn reduced the shots lined up at his men.

He watched as the regrouped cavalry entered the hamlet from the other side. He saw, between the houses, the flash of steel and heard the shrieks of something dying. The contingent of mounted men thundered through and Anderson called a halt as they travelled through the ark of fire, then roared a "Present." as the cavalry cleared their charge. They reached the edge of the village, at a small stone wall and hunkered down.

"Fix… BAYONETS!" A few men chuckled as, with the his of steel on leather, blades were drawn and clamped to the rifles. Anderson grinned, ferally, "Have at 'em, lads."

The first men vaulted the wall. A green blast shot out from a back door but went wide. A man charged forwards and thrust his rifle in, eliciting a high pitched squeal from something. The men didn't dawdle, charging amidst buildings, using their rifles as clubs, spears and staves. Anderson sent a group to flank and act as marksmen, keeping any opportunistic creatures hunkered in buildings, unable to take shots.

He heard the cry of men being hit, usually followed by an inhuman cry. Anderson dismounted and handed the horse to one of the infantry hanging at the rear, the reserve force, then drew his sword and pistol. A pair of men followed him as he advanced into the hamlet.

Something leapt from a window and scrabbled at the guttering of a cottage opposite. It was a man in a morning suit. Anderson goggled as the "man" practically twisted from his landing position and snarled. The Major blinked, raised his pistol and fired. The "man" shrieked and fell clutching its arm.

"Good shot sir," said one of the soldiers, his voice tinged with surprise. Anderson just nodded and advanced towards the small garden where the creature had fallen. The thing stood, bringing itself to its full height and made a dramatic flourish, raising a strange, silver-green weapon to bear. Its movements were quick, fluid and it got a shot off fast. One of Anderson's escorts went down with a cry, clutching his side. His comrade and the Major returned fire. At twenty feet it was hard to miss and they didn't. The creature stiffened as a pistol round thudded into its forehead, then crumpled as a .308 burst its gut.. Anderson reeled back as the thin-man practically exploded. He stepped back further as he saw the cobbles begin to smoulder and pit from the fluid leaking from the creature.

"That's new."

Twenty minutes later, the village was cleared of hostiles. After the adrenaline rush of the assault, the men finally took stock of what they'd been fighting. Several goggled, a few couldn't help but laugh. The NCOs turned to Anderson, along with the officers of the Cavalry as the troopers stacked Insectoid corpses and (carefully) hauled the thin-men bodies into rows.

The troglodyte menace had exacted a toll - three cavalrymen had been sent reeling, a fourth had shot himself in a panic, so a quarter of this group was gone. The infantry had lost seven in the initial advance and another four clearing houses. Two more were down after running into a pair of other thin men and had inhaled some of the gas the buggers seemed to practically leak.

"Bloody business. Jefferson, head back to camp, inform the Brigadier of the status of the Hamlet. We may as well billet some of the men here to keep it secure."

The Cavalry Subaltern saluted and began marshalling his men. One of the Infantry sergeants stepped forward and gave Anderson a look, "You don't seem… perturbed… sir."

Anderson met his gaze, "One sees all manner of things in service to Her Majesty, Corporal. I just happen to have seen these devils myself before."

"Devils, sir?"

Anderson shrugged, "Hardly. They die to bullets as well as any Afghan, Zulu or Frenchman, what?"

The Corporal managed a weak smile, "That they do. Tricky buggers though."

Anderson patted the man on the shoulder, "Nothing crack shots like our boys can't handle though. Now, round 'em up, we'll need to find a cart for the bodies."

"Why sir?"

The Major chuckled, "A lady I know would kill for these."

The Corporal blinked and shook his head, "Always knew the gentry were a queer lot. As you say sir, will get to it."

But still no sign of civilians. Anderson chewed his lip and walked down the small main road. Troops passed him or sat cleaning weapons, whilst others stood picket. One cried out and Anderson dashed across to the corner of a house. He saw something scuttling away across a field. The soldier brought his rifle up but before he could even sight properly, the small, grey thing suddenly bucked and flipped as a shot ran out.

Moments later, a small group of figures emerged from the woodline on the far side of the village, led by a man with a long rifle. Anderson called for the troops to stand down, "But be careful."

The group were a mixed bag, twenty all told. Men, women, children. The lead man had the look of a farm-hand - sunburned forearms and calloused hands. He shook Anderson by the hand firmly.

"Thankee sir. Saw you boys clear them buggers out."

"What happened?"

The man shrugged, "Bunch of gawkers from the common ran through. Then we had screaming from Dotty's parlour and, well, these things just running and grabbing people. Took most've 'em. Wrapped 'em in green silk or something and carried them back to the common. I took who I could, we hunkered up in the trees, trading shots with them… then your lot came up, they went quiet."

Anderson nodded and looked at the bedraggled group, "This all that's left?"

"Aye sir. Hundred souls in this 'ere steading. Bare score of us left. But we want to fight."

A few men hefted pitchforks - some seemed sticky with green fluid. Several others hefted shotguns or hunting rifles. _God bless the countryside_ thought Anderson. He nodded.

"I will leave a small contingent here, but we'll need you to keep this village secure. If you can, get women and children evacuated. Heard from any other villages?"

"Possibly. Rumours some sightings over at Maybury Hill."

"Then bunker down here. Corporal Franks, secure the hamlet, take ten men. I'll get back to HQ, update the command. We may need to sweep the whole bally county at this rate."

Anderson found his horse, tied to a garden fence, then remounted and led his remaining men, along with two wagons, piled with metal and meat, back. Behind him, the light of candles lit up windows. But not enough.

* * *

 _Sleep would probably be a good idea_. Bradford was hunched over a map, unrolled on a table in the main keep of the Tower. He was, really, using the table for support. The constant stream of information, updates and requests was… well frankly it was overwhelming. He was fine being an analyst and perhaps coming up with potential directions. But doing that and then having to make the final call? It was getting too much.

So far, they had two core sites contained and five more sites of potential anarchist-level activity, potentially stirred up by these visitors. Camden was a riot, currently, with Paddington experiencing a particularly brutal fire near the station. Luckily the Fire Brigade and several employed police and military personnel were holding it together; but they were getting reports of strange attacks - green fire, attacks of opportunity on personnel or civilians.

He could react fast enough - the city was a warren of activity, people flooding from one side in a panic, whilst another area was barely aware there was anything wrong. And it'd been like that all night.

They'd gotten the dockyards and Limehouse mostly sorted; Westminster had, essentially, an Army encamped around it, with the Household division deploying cavalry and Grenadier infantry to defend it. Likewise the palace was a solid fortress.

He'd requisition and managed to get the Colonel to approve a few elements of the military to secure what he thought of as strategic assets - the main telephone and telegraph exchange, for one; the railway stations for another. But there was too much of London. Add onto that the Hospital stretching his guard force.

He looked up as Moira entered and slumped into an easy chair that had been pulled into the room. It'd been an armoury, apparently, for medieval equipment. Right now it was a mess of maps and cork-boards, with junior officers and NCOs pinning reports or sharing information in hushed tones. The Doctor massaged her temples and fixed Bradford with a glare.

"You look _schrecklich_ Herr Bradford."

" _Danke_ Ms Vahlen. You aren't a morning person?"

"I would be if I thought this was a civilised time to be awake."

"Up all night?"

"Just like you. I have been giving the specimens some more attention; this batch being fresher, less pickled and also lacking the lead poisoning of our prior options."

Bradford shrugged, "Gotta ship a corpse somehow. Find anything?"

She sighed and leaned back in the chair, settling slightly, "Well, it's all wrong to start with."

Bradford moved around the table and leaned against its edge, folding his arms, "Oh?"

"The organs make no sense. There's certain mirrored elements, such as what we believe are kidneys, waste removal systems and so forth; but it lacks both any method _zu essen_ , to eat or to excrete. It has no mouth and no…. Well, no…"

"Alright Doc, I get the picture. Our guy is permanently blocked up, you mean?"

"That's just it. No digestive tract, vestigial throat, minor vocal chords only. It has a circulatory system of sorts, but it really does resemble an insect in that it appears to have a fluid base rather than a complete circulatory system for its organs. That only goes to its brain. Which in itself is strange."

"I mean, I ain't a neuro-whatever doc… define strange."

"Highly developed lobes, very dense as well. But the basal ganglia is practically non-existent. It has some elements similar to a human brain, but appears to have extra elements. Also, thin metal filaments all the way through. Consistent in all the specimens."

"Metal in their heads? Shrapnel?"

" _Nein._ This appears… placed. It forms a sort of mesh across elements of the creature's brain. And it runs to the devices on their wrists."

"And what are those anyway?"

"Weaponry… tools as well. We have no idea, not a single one was intact. Shen is analysing the metals currently and seems to be trying to reconstruct one from scratch. He things he can puzzle out something about it at least."

"So, they don't eat or shit, they don't talk. What have we learned doc?"

"Oh they eat… but _verdammt_ if I know how. Injection, perhaps?"

Bradford exhaled, "Which means they will need a logistical supply. Can't fight if you can't eat. And if they can't eat what we eat, then we may have a home advantage on these suckers."

Moira nodded slowly, "Good point. And what about you?"

Bradford rocked his head back, "Well, Anderson may be heading back. Got something big in…. Woking? Yeah that's where. Maybe these bastards trying another gamble."

"Ah, so he has taken up the offer?"

"Reckon so. Be glad if he does get here, he can manage this bullcrap. English command structure and politics… you can keep it. Had three messages demanding I go to, uh, Parliament and declare to them why I haven't secured the city. Or why there aren't more troops at Downing street…. Or or or."

Moira chuckled, "Sounds like the best of times," She stood with a groan, "If you will excuse me, Captain. I will retire. I understand there are rooms?"

"Make yourself at home. One of the, what are they… Beefeaters? They can guide you."

He watched her go and turned back to the map. London was a series of little red pins and green rings. He looked up at a larger map on a board, of the world. It had several dots, along with a few orange ones for unknown activity. Prussia, France, America. He'd had a call from New York - similar activity was being reported in California and, potentially, down in Florida, albeit not quite as intensive. More probing.

And those falling stars, more reports across the country. He was glad he hadn't gone to Liverpool now - reports were very confused from up there.

He stared at the map and sighed, "Just what the hell is your endgame, boys?"

* * *

**UPDATING - ORBITAL ASSETS CONFIRM:**

\- Primary beachhead sites confirmed

\- Gateway anchoring - IN PROGRESS

\- Embedded assets - OBSERVING RESPONSE

\- War Machine assembly - COMPLETION IMMINENT

**REQUEST FROM CREATOR_RESEARCH_LEAD:**

\- Progress update requested

\- Key project update requested

\- Communication status update requested

\- SOL 3 Pacification update requested

**COLLATING**

**…** **.SENDING**

**NEW QUERY**

\- Ensure sample collection is increased - data set confirms **/self/** findings

 **PROJECT AVATAR** proposal - **COMMENCE**

**NEW PARAMETERS FOR: WARMIND**

_Identify suitable sample sets_

_Secure_

_Extract_

_Dispatch for analysis_

**ADDENDUM**

_Priority: Gateway establishment for rapid extraction of samples._

_Priority: Secure Gateway sites_

_Secondary: Clear hostile locations in order to achieve PRIORITY objectives._

**WARMIND Alpha -NORTHERN HEMISPHERE:**

\- Parameters received

\- Gateway establishment underway

\- Request Escalation Warform release

IDENTIFIED: hostile presence, armed contingent; success rate against incoming forces currently measured at 25%

Attrition rate: HIGH

Adjusted Attrition rate with WAR MACHINE completion: NEGLIGIBLE

Adjusted success rate: 97.35%

**/SELF RESPONSE/**

\- Escalation Warform request - **GRANTED**

\- Aerial Units Decanted.

\- Ground Enforcement Units Decanted

ETA via launch: 3 Planetary rotations

ETA with Gateway establishment: 0.45 seconds. - **PRIORITY - GATEWAY ESTABLISHMENT WILL ENABLE RELEASE OF ASSETS TO SECURE.**

**WARMIND Alpha -NORTHERN HEMISPHERE:**

\- Acknowledged

\- War Machine TRI-902 activating in 2040 seconds.

\- Engagement of hostile sapients: IMMINENT


End file.
